


Life in Other Rooms

by beetle



Series: Other Rooms [3]
Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool (Comics), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bobpinder, Bottoming from the Top, Come Marking, Daddy Kink, F/M, Falling In Love, Family, Feels, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Heavy Angst Fast Approaching, Humor, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Instance of Homophobic Language, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Meet the Family, Meeting the Parents, Mentions of dub-con, Mentions of non-con, Moving In Together, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Past Flash Thompson/Peter Parker, Past Flash Thompson|Venom/Spider-Man, Post Mpreg, Rough Sex, Same-Sex Marriage, Schadenfreude, Science Boyfriends, Sexual Humor, Topping from the Bottom, mention of miscarriage, parenting, phlint - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-15 02:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8039461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: One week after hooking up at Nate and Wade's wedding reception, Peter Parker and Jack "Weasel" Hammer have their first date in Queens and it goes somewhat awry . . . but in the best way. There's sex, Thai food, and feels are most definitely had. On the same night, in a suburb of Yonkers, Bob and Dopinder--who are officially Bobpinder, as far as I'm concerned--go to meet Dopinder's family. Some of it, anyway. Bob is nervous, Dopinder is mortified, and Georgie just loves him some Bob. So, that works out pretty well for all involved. Except for Wade, who has justifiable schadenfraude about his best friend and his lackey taking his two precious innocents away from him.Basically? This is the first of five intermittent peeks into the parallel lives of two odd-couples. Mostly, it's an excuse to write sexy, kinky, smutty, fluffy, rarepair-love. True love, even. Please let me know what you think. Comments are love. Dirty, sexy love.





	1. One Week On: Jack and Peter; Bob and Dopinder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hostile17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hostile17/gifts), [table1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/table1/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: AU. A follow-up to “Nate, Bridezilla, and the Three Hook-Ups," but is easy enough to follow as a standalone. Takes place starting one week after the initial hook-ups of two other pairings at Nate and Wade’s wedding reception, and follows them into their futures together.

**One Week On: Jack and Peter**

 

 

** **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weasel had been standing at Peter Parker’s front door for ten minutes.

 

He checked the flowers he’d brought—gardenias, which were, according to a still-pissed Wade, Peter’s favorite flower—to see if they smelled alright. They still did. After, like, thirty separate checks.

 

Then, he also checked his _breath_ again, to see if _it_ still smelled alright, too.

 

_Eh, it’ll have to do,_ he thought almost gloomily. On all the nights to have lost his breath-spray, he’d lost it on the first night he’d be seeing Peter since Nate and Wade’s wedding reception. _And anyway, it’s not like he hasn’t tasted my breath when it was way worse than it is now. I mean, we made out for at least an hour after I sucked his dick, swallowed what felt like a bucketful of come, and after we’d been drinking, and bingeing on mini-quiches and sticky-icky for most of the evening. I think he can handle my breath with just some careful brushing and copious amounts of Listerine._

 

Still. Weasel’d always been particular about the little things. Like having fresh, minty breath, no B.O., and clean hair.

 

Sighing, he finally raised his hand to knock on Peter’s scarred, scuffed door—at last—then froze.

 

_But what if he hates the flowers? What if he’s allergic? What if Wade’s_ fulla shit _, as he so often is? What if—_

 

Suddenly Peter’s door swung open decisively and the man, himself, leaned against the doorpost, dressed in a faded, black _Space Jam_ t-shirt, old, sprung blue jeans, and he was barefoot: his long, narrow feet seeming oddly delicate . . . his toes twiddling on the clean wooden floor of his apartment. His wavy, mahogany-brown hair was a mess all over his head and framing his handsome, sharp-featured, angular, face. His dark eyes were as bright and wide as Weasel remembered . . . maybe even _more_ so, as they looked him over and those pouty, perfect lips curved in a small smile.

 

“Pete! Hey!” Weasel blurted out, flushing and smiling a smile that felt completely ridiculous. As ridiculous as he suddenly felt in his nice, grey suit, purple silk tie, and fancy wingtip shoes.

 

(Weasel supposed he _really_ ought to have specified what and where they'd be going for dinner, when he and Peter had talked on the phone all those times in the past seven days. But he'd simply said, in a moment of twitterpated-largesse, for Peter to leave the destination to him as part of a _romantic surprise_.

 

It would seem that plan had backfired.)

 

Shoving the gardenias at Peter, who took them bemusedly, Weasel then fidgeted as Peter sniffed the small bouquet—he wondered if he should’ve gotten a larger or fancier arrangement . . . Peter didn’t exactly seem high maintenance, but he was several degrees of magnitude better than Weasel’s _usual_ date-fare—then met his gaze again, that amusement shining out brighter than ever.

 

“You’ve been talking to Wade. Brownie-points,” Peter murmured slyly, and Weasel’s flush burned hotter.

 

“Well. Um. I mean. You know.” Shrugging and fighting off a truly gross and persistent flop-sweat, Weasel shoved his hands in the pockets of his fancy suit-jacket so hard, he heard a quiet, but worrying ripping sound. “Uh. That is . . . Wade’s not really talking to me much, right now, except to tell me how I better not break his Baby Boy’s heart, or else. And that you, um . . . like gardenias and Thai food. And the Bronx Zoo.”

 

Peter’s smile relaxed into something fond and considering. “All of which is true. But, um . . . what’s with the fancy suit? Got a job interview after our date?” He popped the "T" at the end of _date_ , somehow, like it was bubblegum.

 

“Ah. Ah-ha-ha, no,” Weasel said uncomfortably, rocking back and forth from heel to toe. “I, uh, made us reservations at _Kittichai_ for about . . . half an hour from now. I hear tell they have the best Thai food in the city.”

 

Peter’s eyes widened and Weasel felt as if he’d been punched in the gut, because holy _fuck_ , did Peter Parker have the most amazing eyes any human being had ever been graced with.

 

“You didn’t,” Peter said, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh. Weasel shrugged again.

 

“Kinda did.”

 

“Wow . . . I am . . . impressed. And _so_ not dressed for _Kittichai_ . . . though this outfit might not go amiss at _Zoob Zib_. And they do have _really_ _good_ pad thai. Like, _mind-blowing_.” Peter sighed, his eyebrows quirking as he sniffed his flowers again. Weasel’s brow furrowed.

 

“Well . . . I guess I could call over at _Zoob Zib_ and see if I can get us a table, even though it’s pretty last minute. . . .”

 

“ _Jack_ ,” Peter said, laughter in his voice as he reached out and took Weasel’s left hand with his free right one. His hand was cool and gentle, with calluses in strange places. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes for you to knock on my door so I could drag you into my parlor, Little Fly. So if you think that now that I’ve finally got you in my web, I’m gonna let you go—even to take me to the best Thai restaurant in the city—then you’ve got another think comin’, handsome.”

 

Weasel blinked and flushed a little. “Uh . . . what?”

 

Laughing outright, Peter tugged rather insistently on Weasel’s hand, and the physically larger and broader man stumbled forward, into the doorway and Peter Parker’s arms. His own arms automatically wrapped around Peter, holding the other man close as he gazed into eyes like the depths of the ocean, or maybe deep space.

 

“You know, Jack, I really thought you meant to come over, order us some take-out, and we’d Netflix and chill . . . emphasis very much on the _chill_.” He grinned, standing on his tiptoes, so their faces were mere inches apart, and growing slowly closer. “You don’t have to show off for me.”

 

“Maybe . . . maybe I want to.” Weasel licked his lips as Peter’s grew even closer, and he could feel Peter’s warm, minty, gentle breath on his chin. “Maybe . . . maybe I think you’re worth showing off _for_. Maybe I don’t wanna cheap-out on the first guy I’ve had feels for in . . . years.”

 

Peter’s amused eyes narrowed slightly in sudden understanding and he stopped moving closer, just before his lips might’ve touched Weasel’s.

 

“Oh,” he said heavily, his own brow furrowing like Weasel’s had. Weasel felt the bottom of his stomach drop down to his feet. Then Peter was speaking again, his breath soft and sweet, his eyes . . . pretty much the same. “I . . . I haven’t had feels for a guy in years, either. Not really. And certainly no guy’s wanted to . . . show off for me and _not_ be a cheap-wad, in recent memory.” Sighing, Peter shook his head and settled back on his feet. Weasel had to resist the urge to follow those pretty, pouty lips away. He had _very_ fond memories of what those lips tasted and felt like, and what they could do. Not to mention that talented tongue. “Listen, I’m—I guess I’ve just forgotten what it is to go out on a _real_ date, you know? Like, a nice restaurant and conversation, and all that good stuff. I was basically gonna drag you into my lair for a repeat of Wade and Nate’s wedding reception.”

 

Peter’s face was pink and now he was _definitely_ avoiding Weasel’s eyes.

 

“You mean, uh, the wedding reception where we ate a metric shit-ton of great food, smoked three bowls of my best weed, then you spent the better part of an hour riding my dick like you were trying to place first in a rodeo? _That_ wedding reception?” Weasel asked, his own lips twitching, now. Peter was the one to flush deeper this time.

 

“Yeah. Kinda,” he mumbled, risking a glance up at Weasel, who pulled Peter tight against him. The other man was half-hard and his pupils dilated when he made contact with Weasel’s thigh. “And I’m not—I mean, I’m not _easy_ , it’s just . . . it’s been a while, for me. And the wedding reception . . . I’ve _never_ done anything like that before. Never. But it was, uh . . . _really_ . . . fantastic.” He met Weasel’s eyes again, holding them steadily, now. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s made me feel so wanted and sexy and . . . b-beautiful . . . and I’d kinda like to feel that way again as often as possible—but I don’t want you to think I only see you as some sort of compliment-spewing sex-pony—”

 

“ _Sex-pony_?” Weasel was grinning, now, watching Peter stammer his way through a highly unnecessary, but insanely amusing and adorable explanation.

 

“Yeah. Sex-pony. Which I know you aren’t, even if I didn’t act like it tonight or the other night, and I just . . . I really wanna apologize for being so forward and assuming that you’d want to do that again right away with someone you barely know, especially when you’re completely sober, and—”

 

“ _Peter_ ,” Weasel said, actually laughing, now, as he leaned in to kiss Peter’s sweet, lush lips. He tasted strongly of mint and less strongly of coffee. “One: Who said I’m completely sober? Actually haven’t been since tenth grade. Two: Of _course,_ I wanna have a repeat, three-peat, fucking _four_ -peat of the wedding reception, are you _kidding me_? Three: There’s nothing to apologize for, because if I hadn’t been trying so hard to impress you and keep your interest, I’d have suggested _exactly_ what you expected . . . i.e., Netflix and chill, with emphasis on the _chill_. And four:. . . .”

 

“Four?” Peter asked tentatively, smiling just a little, his wide eyes gone saucer-like. Weasel’s grin turned into a smirk.

 

“Four: I _am_ a sex-pony, baby . . . a sex-fucking- _stallion_.” Weasel waggled his eyebrows and Peter snorted, rolling his eyes. Then he was sliding his arms around Weasel’s neck, till the gardenias were caught in Weasel’s hair. Weasel leaned his forehead down and against Peter’s, his hands sliding down to grip at Peter’s thighs, just under his amazing ass. “C’mon, baby,” he whispered, his breath suddenly coming hot and fast. “ _You know_ what Daddy likes.”

 

Peter snorted again—rolled his eyes again, too—and with a clench of his arms around Weasel’s neck, he agilely braced himself and lifted his legs till they were wrapped around Weasel’s waist and his hard-on pressed against Weasel’s gut.

 

“And Daddy knows what _I_ like,” Peter breathed, nuzzling Weasel’s nose with his own as Weasel walked them into the studio apartment proper, kicking the door shut behind them. Neither of them noticed when the gardenias fell from Peter's hand as he carded his fingers through Weasel's dark-blond hair.

 

Thinking of the way Peter had all but shoved him onto his back at the wedding reception, stripped the pants and boxers off him, and then, with minimal prep, impaled himself on Weasel’s rock-hard, steadily leaking dick, Weasel’s smirk turned into an almost dazed smile of happy remembrance.

 

“Yeah, Daddy knows, alright. His pretty baby's a stone- _freak_.” Weasel stopped their progress at Peter’s bed—some piece of flimsy, IKEA crap that probably wouldn’t last too long assuming he and Peter _did_. Not with the way Peter liked to bounce and flail and use those funky, bendy, double-jointed acrobatics of his.

 

“I really _should_ give you the twenty-five cent tour,” Peter exhaled distractedly as Weasel bent to lower his . . . _Peter_ . . . to the bed. Then the world was spinning hard and fast as Peter did one of those weird, funky, bendy Ninjutsu-moves of his in a fluid take-down that ended with Weasel on the bed, flat on his back, and Peter straddling him. The other man’s eyes were wide and bright and _hungry_. “But it’s a fucking _studio apartment_ , not the Guggenheim . . . and tours are overrated, anyway.”

 

“On this we can agree,” Weasel said, not waiting for the room to stop spinning before helping himself to a double-handful of the finest ass on the entire planet. Maybe in the entire _galaxy_. Peter writhed and snaked his hips in a slow, ridiculously sexy way, his eyes half-lidded, his tongue coming out to swipe his pink lips as he ground down against Weasel’s obviously interested dick. Peter’s own dick was tenting out his loose, sprung jeans and there was a wet spot already forming near the zipper.

 

_Weasel_ was the one to lick his lips, this time, humming contentedly when Peter shucked the _Space Jam_ t-shirt and swooped down to steal a kiss that lasted until Peter had managed, somehow, to open both their flies, laid down on top of Weasel like a sex-blanket, and was grinding their dicks together slow and hard.

 

Weasel pushed hasty fingers down the back of Peter’s jeans—he was _not_ wearing underwear—then pushed the damn jeans down impatiently, as far as he could get them. Then his fingers were brushing between Peter’s muscular cheeks, feeling for the twitchy-fluttery heat of his tight little hole.

 

“ _Ooooooh, Jack_ ,” Peter moaned when Weasel’s thick, blunt index finger circled the guardian muscle before pushing in just a little. “Oh, _fuck_. . . .”

 

“Tell me how it feels, baby . . . tell me how it feels to take me dry,” Weasel ordered, bucking up in a sharp thrust against Peter’s cock. Peter moaned again, grinding down onto Weasel, then pushing back onto Weasel’s finger, clenching down _tight_ and trying to force more of Weasel’s finger into him.

 

“Feels . . . _oh, God, Jack_ . . . burns so good. . . .” Peter panted, his hips and pelvis gyrating and see-sawing, respectively, back and forth. “So . . . fucking . . . _good_. . . .”

 

“Yeah, I know it does, babe.” Weasel pressed a tender kiss to the spot between Peter’s brows, even as he eased his finger out of Peter’s tight, tortuous heat. The other man made an almost enraged sound of protest. “Can’t do too much more without slick, right, Pete? C’mon . . . I’ll be back in you before you know it.”

 

“Unh, _still_ not fast enough,” Peter said tersely, grinding down harder against Weasel, till Weasel’s eyes were trying their best to roll up into his head. But all too soon, Peter’s body shifted until cool air was all that was touching Weasel’s dick. Then there was a loud ripping sound and a satisfied grunt.

 

Just as Weasel opened his eyes, he saw Peter’s baggy, torn jeans go sailing across the room. Then, a few moments later, cool gel engulfed his cock—was smeared all over it and his balls—until Weasel shivered, and arched and thrust into Peter’s lube-y hand. Then Peter’s watchful eyes and sly smile grew more so as his slim, gel-slick fingers went back to where no man had ever gone before. . . .

 

“Uh . . . I don’t—” _take it up the ass_ , _baby. Ever. Nothin’ goes_ in _Daddy’s out-pipe_ , Weasel had meant to say, because it was true. He’d never had _anything_ in his ass, not even his own fingers. But _Peter’s fingers_ were too fast, the index and middle sliding teasingly around Weasel’s asshole, pressing against the guardian muscle, but not breaching it, creating what was simultaneously the weirdest-scariest-amazingest feeling Weasel’d ever felt.

 

“Holy-fucking-shit!” he exclaimed, his cock twitching visibly toward his abdomen, and leaking even more precome than it had been. Wide-eyed and panting, he gazed up at Peter in shock. “Whah. . . ?”

 

“Nothing beats anal stimulation for getting a dick good and hard. Or so I’ve been told,” Peter demurred rather humbly, licking his lips as his fingers worked at turning Weasel on in a way that was as strange and uncomfortable, as it was unexpectedly _good_. “Maybe one day, we’ll even go so far as finding your prostate, Mr. Jack Hammer . . . but we don’t have to do that tonight.”

 

Weasel blinked. “Let’s, uh . . . let’s not dismiss that idea out of hand. . . .” he hurried to say, but with one last stroke around his asshole, Peter removed his hand, then coated his first two fingers in more lube before reaching behind himself with a smile. Then his eyes were widening, his lovely lips parting as he fingered himself open with many a breathy sigh, grunt, and moan.

 

“ _God_ , you’re. . . .” Weasel didn’t even have the words. But Peter seemed to understand, because he grinned, wide and pleased.

 

“I’m kinda in a hurry, at the moment: I just really want your dick in me as soon as possible. But next time . . . next time, I want you to spend _at least_  thirty minutes opening me up with those thick fingers of yours. _Four_ of ‘em . . . 'til I'm nice and stretched and sloppy, and your dick just _slides right in_ , in one thrust.” Peter’s eyebrows shot up as if he was asking, not demanding, and Weasel nodded.

 

“Hells, _yeah_ , baby.” Weasel ran his sweating hands up and down Peter’s defined, minutely trembling thighs. “Anything you want.”

 

Peter’s grin turned smug and his eyes went half-lidded again.

 

“I want _you_ ,” he said plainly, easing his fingers out of his body with a small squelching noise. Then he was maneuvering himself until he was positioned over Weasel’s _been-ready_ dick.

 

Then Peter was, indeed, impaling himself on Weasel, the both of them groaning out their pleasure as Peter sat on Weasel’s lap.

 

When Weasel was fully sheathed in Peter’s hot, tight, twitchy-fluttery body, he swore softly, reaching up toward Peter’s face. But he couldn’t quite reach, even though Peter’s head was hanging as he took deep, measured breaths and tried to relax around Weasel.

 

“Y’okay, Pete?” Weasel asked, settling for squeezing Peter’s thigh gently. It was nearly a minute before Peter looked up, his face bright pink, his eyes wide and dazed. Then most of another minute before he spoke.

 

“I really, _really_ wanna fuck myself _hard_ on your cock, Jack,” he said in a raw, broken, and meek voice, as if he was asking permission and expected to not get it.

 

_Well, who’m_ I _to say no?_

 

“Sure, baby.” Weasel grinned, and braced himself on Peter’s crappy IKEA bed and squeezed the lean thighs trembling around and bracketing his own. “This dick is _all_ yours. Go for it.”

 

Peter’s smile was incandescent.

 

Then he was arching his spine backwards at such a sharp angle, Weasel was momentarily worried. But when Peter’s back—seriously, was he made of _rubber_?—didn’t crack or break, only returned sinuously to its previous, upright position, he laughed breathlessly.

 

“ _God_ , you’re so sexy, Peter,” he all but gushed. Then he was crying out, loud and desperate, as Peter began gyrating his hips and pelvis again before pulling almost completely off of Weasel’s cock . . . then sitting down with a loud smack of damp flesh.

 

Weasel spent the next three-quarters of an hour gazing at Peter with adoring, awe-filled eyes, while the other man bounced on Weasel's dick like a man obsessed, even as he kept enough presence of mind to tell Weasel when he required thrusting to supplement the bouncing, and how hard. And Weasel, of course, happily obeyed, fighting not to come as long as he could. Until _Peter_ came, shouting so loud and shooting so hard, come literally fountained out of his angry-red cock and painted his stomach, chest, and chin, not to mention Weasel’s. Then, finally, when Peter collapsed on top of him with a sated, slightly pained whimper, Weasel just let himself go. He bucked up into Peter's feverish heat once, twice, three times, good and hard and sharp then, with a hoarse yell, blew his load in Peter’s body, hot and endlessly, as Peter’s somewhat loosened hole reflexively clenched around him, like it was milking his dick for every last drop of come.

 

Finally, when Weasel’s strung-tight body went utterly limp under Peter’s, his softened cock slipping out of Peter because of what felt like a river of come, he wrapped thousand-pound arms around Peter and chuckled tiredly.

 

“Wow,” he croaked out around a slightly sore throat.

 

Peter huffed out a small snort. “Understatement of the year, Jack.”

 

“Mm.” Weasel grinned, blinking dazedly up at the water-stained ceiling. "Better than the reception hall storage-room?"

 

“Fuck, _yes_. And _those times_ were no slouch, either.” Peter's voice was small and high with wonder and bemusement.

 

Weasel chuckled again, brushing his fingers up and down Peter's sweaty back. "Just call me Mr. Wonder-Dick." He grinned again because he could practically hear Peter rolling his eyes, but . . . the other man didn't gainsay him.

 

Silence reigned for almost ten minutes before Peter broke it again, shifting slightly on top of Weasel, who snorted when he felt his own come drip—still warm, but kind of tacky, now—out of Peter and onto Weasel’s own thigh.

 

“So . . . what now?” Peter’s words were a series of warm, long puffs on Weasel’s throat, where Peter’s face was currently buried. Weasel’s left hand slid down from the small of Peter’s back, to his ass, gripping it tight and possessive for a few moments, before pushing between his cheeks to finger his way into Peter’s dripping-wet, significantly loosened asshole. It was still delightfully tight, of course, but pretty squishy and squelchy, which made Weasel smile.

 

I _did that_ , he thought with a certain sense of pride that was probably giddy and redonkulous. Not that he cared. After sex like _that_ , a little giddiness and redonkulousness was _entirely_  earned. “Now . . . we recupe for a bit, then . . . Netflix and chill till we’re ready for Round Two?”

 

“Hmm . . . sounds like a plan, Stan.” Peter snuffled against Weasel’s neck like a sleepy piglet, thrusting himself back onto Weasel’s fingers and clenching muscles that _had_ to be sore and exhausted. Then, sighing, he began to sit up.

 

“Hey, where ya goin’, baby?” Weasel eased his fingers out of Peter, who hissed a little, anyway, rolling off of Weasel and onto the bed. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. His smile was tired, sated, and fond.

 

“ _Arunee Thai_ is a lot closer than either _Kittichai_ or _Zoob Zib_ , and they _deliver_. Food’s not half-bad, either,” Peter added, standing up. In the studio apartment’s lighting, he was a long pale gleam, but for the burgeoning bruises on his lean thighs and round ass.

 

Fuck, _am I lucky, or what?_ Weasel thought as Peter padded gracefully toward the front door, bent to pick up the fallen gardenias—which neither of them had _noticed_ fall in their haste to get horizontal—then course-corrected for the small kitchenette. A pile of take-out menus waited on the counter separating it from the rest of the apartment. Peter futzed with, then put down the gardenias, and began sorting through menus, humming tunelessly.

 

When he found the menu he wanted, he made his way back to the bed and sat, chuckling when Weasel pulled him closer and kissed his hip, licking at salty-sweet skin that smelled like the tropics or something fruity.

 

“Mm, you taste better than any Thai food _I’ve_ ever had.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes, but leaned down to kiss Weasel’s temple. “Silly. Okay, whaddaya say to the Kha Nom Jeeb Taud as an appetizer, and maybe . . . hmm . . . the Pad Woonsen for main? Ooh, and mango ice cream for dessert? Jesus, but I worked up an appetite! I'm _starving_!”

 

“You're also pretentious as _fuck_ , cutie-pie . . . you know that, right?” Weasel asked, as his own wave of fondness threatened to sweep him under. Peter whapped his thigh without even looking away from the menu.

 

“Of _course_ I am, Jack. I’m a fucking _hipster_. Ooh! Maybe a couple of Thai iced coffees for some extra . . . _oomph_ during Round Two _._ ” This time, Peter _did_ glance at Weasel, eyebrows waggling ridiculously in his otherwise serious face. Weasel’s heart did a weird thing it’d _never_ done before. Not even that time Marty Dufresne gave him that valentine back in fifth grade, a bare moment before kissing Weasel, then shoving him backwards, so he fell into a thicket of poison ivy, while Marty ran off and lied and told everyone Weasel smelled like mothballs and cat pee.

 

For a moment, Weasel couldn’t catch his breath.

 

Time actually kind of _froze_ for him . . . at least until Peter blinked and began to look worried.

 

“Jack? Honey?” he began hesitantly. But Weasel was already sitting up, and pulling Peter into his arms and back down to the bed. The other man went with a contented sigh, making himself small and super-cuddly against Weasel and in his embrace. That concerned _Honey?_ seemed to reverberate throughout Weasel's entire being, making every cell of him quiver and almost overheat.

 

“Sorry, baby . . . went walk-about, for a minute. Anyway, yeah, that all sounds _really_ good.” He kissed Peter’s crown, nuzzling his damp, but still-fragrant hair. “Hey, uh . . . random question, hot stuff: Do I, uh . . . smell like mothballs and cat pee?”

 

“ _What?!_ ” Peter looked up at him, clearly confused. Weasel flushed and cleared his throat before digging his cell phone out of his shirt pocket (the suit, itself—especially the come-soaked and lube-smeared crotch-area of his pants, and the lower part of his shirt and suit-jacket—was a loss, looking very much like Weasel had fucked someone while wearing it).

 

“Nothing, baby . . . nothing. Sorry, just . . . ignore me. Okay, Thai, it is! My treat!”

 

 

**One Week On: Bob and Dopinder**

 

“How do I look?” Bob asked his boyfriend as they stepped out of said boyfriend’s cab and approached said boyfriend’s parents’ house. The neighborhood was scenic, quiet, and well-maintained: as far from the kind of place Bob had grown up as anything.

 

“You look _very_ handsome,” Dopinder said warmly as he stepped around the back of the cab, quite dapper in his own business-casual outfit of charcoal slacks, black shirt, and opalescent tie. He approached Bob, smiling warmly, then reached up to minutely adjust Bob’s tie—Bob had never been able to get a half-Windsor just right, but sadly, it was the only style of knot his father had hung around long enough to teach him _. Sort of_ teach him—then smoothed Bob’s button-down, business-blue shirt (short-sleeved). The outfit was finished off with a pair of Dockers that Mr. Wilson had helped him choose, grumbling all the while about Bob and Mr. Hammer stealing all his _precious, innocent darlings_ away.

 

“I dunno, Dopinder . . . I feel like I should’ve at least brought the mask _with_ me . . . you know . . . just in case I need it,” Bob said quietly as Dopinder rolled his eyes fondly and took his arm. He all but dragged Bob toward his parents’ front porch.

 

“There will not be a heroing emergency at my parents’ home, Bob,” he said, not for the first time, either. But he still sounded incredibly patient with his anxious lover. “There will be no need for masks or costumes, here.”

 

“But what if . . . what if they think I’m not . . . not good enough? What if they don’t like me? What if they make you b-break up with me?” This all slipped out of Bob on one exhalation, and for the first time since Dopinder had told him two days ago about the dinner invitation.

 

Dopinder paused when they were a mere few feet from the porch. He looked up at Bob with that searching/knowing gaze—one that Bob had first seen the morning after they’d, er, _hooked-up_ at Mr. Wilson’s and Mr. Summers’ wedding reception. A very sober, very _hungover_ Dopinder had given Bob that very look when Bob had come back to his tiny apartment with breakfast for them both. Dopinder, still in bed and squinting from the sunlight streaming into Bob's bedroom, had smiled tentatively when Bob had presented a bag full of _croissants_ , still hot and very buttery, and a carrier with two big cups of hot French vanilla coffee, and . . . and they’d rarely been apart since that morning, except when work intruded—and finally chuckled, bouncing up on his toes to steal a tender, teasing kiss. Bob’s arms immediately wound around Dopinder’s narrow waist, pulling him closer. The other man hummed happily, before pulling away once more, but only a little.

 

“My parents are . . . old-fashioned. They . . . are still coming to terms with my sexuality. And with the fact that now I have a b-boyfriend,” Dopinder murmured, blushing under his smooth, dark complexion. But his eyes were, as always, so fearless and open. “But they definitely want to meet you, after all the wonderful things I’ve told them about you.”

 

Bob’s eyebrows lifted. “Dopinder . . . you didn’t _lie_ to your parents about me, did you? I mean, in an attempt to talk me up?”

 

“Of course not!” Dopinder scoffed, bouncing up again to buss the tip of Bob’s nose. “I told them nothing but the truth about you. You are sweet and kind, brave and good, smart and funny. And you make me happy. So, yes, Bob . . . they want to meet you.” That sweet smile reappeared. “And even if they’d outright rejected the fact that I’m gay and in a relationship with you, another man, they could _never_ force me to break up with you. I care _too_ _much_ for you and you make me far too _happy_ for me to give you up without an _unimpeachable_ reason.”

 

“Such as?”

 

Dopinder rolled his dark, lovely eyes. “Trafficking with demons? I honestly do not know, Bob. It would have to be something _very_ drastic and evil.”

 

“Oh,” Bob said, relieved. He didn’t even _believe_ in demons—except for the ones in the human heart—let alone _trafficked_ with them. And he’d pretty much left _evil_ behind with Hydra, so. . . .

 

He shook his head. “So, it’s just, uh, gonna be you, me, and your folks?”

 

“And my sister, Sheema, her husband Ajay, and my little nephew, Georgie.”

 

“Right. That’s . . . that shouldn’t be too bad.” The toddler, at least, Bob was reasonably certain he could charm. He was still fresh off babysitting Hope Summers for a goodly portion of his days. And _she’d_ been _tough_ to win over. Tougher than her Papa, even.

 

From Dopinder’s description of his family, it’d sounded like he and his younger sister, Sheema, had been extremely close, the two youngest siblings in a large family made up of daughters, except for Dopinder. And Dopinder had come out to Sheema before anyone else—had been afraid he’d lose his best friend and sister when, in the end, Sheema had been the first one to accept him without question or doubt.

 

Her husband Ajay, who came from a somewhat more progressive family, hadn’t cared a whit about the fact that his then prospective brother-in-law was gay. According to Dopinder, the man was condescending, and a bit of a blowhard, but he’d also accepted Dopinder’s sexuality without question from the night Sheema first brought him to dinner.

 

So, really, it was just Dopinder’s traditional, overprotective parents Bob had to worry about. . . .

 

“Come, Bob,” Dopinder said gently. “My parents will be wondering why we’re standing out here so long.”

 

“And you’re _sure_ I shouldn’t run home and get my mask?”

 

Dopinder blinked. “ _Run home_? Bob, your apartment is in Harlem. We’re in Yonkers.” Bob made a miserable face and Dopinder chuckled, reaching up to run his fingers through Bob’s unruly sandy-blond curls. “You are _so_ adorable,” he whispered with genuine feeling. Bob blushed and held Dopinder tighter.

 

“And you’re . . . incredibly sweet and beautiful, and I really don’t deserve you.”

 

“Well, you’ve got me, anyway.” Dopinder winked and pulled out of Bob’s arms, but immediately taking Bob’s right one. “Now, come and meet the family.”

 

“Okay,” Bob said anxiously, biting his lip and letting himself be tugged and steered to the door like a reluctant barge.

 

#

 

“So,” Dopinder’s mother, Mrs. Murthy, said, resplendent in her purple and pink _sari_ , giving Bob the same searching/knowing glance Dopinder had that first morning . . . only not nearly as friendly and open. Dopinder was almost an exact— _male_ —copy of her, but for her paler eyes. “You are the young man who has turned my son’s head.”

 

Bob and Dopinder shared a glance and shifted uncomfortably on the drafty top step of the porch. “Uh,” Bob said, and Dopinder, smiling a somewhat strained smile, answered for him. “Yes, _Maata-ji_ , this is Bob—er, Robert Lindermann, my, er, boyfriend. And he did not merely _turn my head_ , as you say—”

 

“I did not ask _you_ , _Beta_ , I asked _him_.” Her reply was calm and relaxed, but her gaze was sharp. Next to her, her husband looked wary and resigned, either because of his son’s sexuality or his wife’s . . . probing.

 

“Um,” Bob said quietly. “I don’t exactly know what you mean by _turned his head_ , Mrs. Murthy, but, um . . . I care about Dopinder very much. _Very, very_ much. And, uh . . . yeah. I really like him. I feel, uh, just— _honored_ to be in his life.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Bob could see Dopinder’s sweet smile and the hand in Bob’s turned so their fingers were linking together. Bob’s own smile curved his spare mouth and Mrs. Murthy’s sharp eyes ticked between him and her son, then down to their linked hands. . . .

 

Then _she_ shared a glance with _her husband,_ who shrugged, his dark, mustachioed face still resigned. Like Dopinder, his straight, black hair was spiky and wild, despite obvious attempts to tame it.

 

Sighing, Mrs. Murthy turned back to Bob, her gaze wary, but slightly softened.

 

“Well. We won’t be having supper on the porch,” she said tersely, crossing her arms and stepping out of the doorway, tugging her husband with her, so Dopinder and Bob could actually come inside. “In you go, before the neighbors call the police about a strange white man lurking at our door!”

 

“ _Maa_!” Dopinder whined in a universal tone of mortification, one hand coming up to cover his eyes as he hurried by his parents. But Mrs. Murthy merely snorted, rolling her eyes before glancing up at Bob.

 

“Well,” she said again, huffing as Bob went by and into a house that smelled exotic and spicy, like incense and chilies. “At least you’re _tall_. My _Beta_ always _did_ like the tall boys. And the strong-looking ones, like that—what was his name? Lou Ferragamo? Who wore all that green make-up on television?”

 

“Oh, my God, _Maata-ji_!” Dopinder moaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he led Bob to an archway which opened on a room that was crammed with somewhat carbon-dated furniture, covered in thick, shiny plastic.

 

“Um. You have a lovely home, Mrs. Murthy,” Bob said tentatively.

 

“Eh. It’s nicer now that the children are grown and have gone.” Mrs. Murthy snorted again as she and her thus-far silent husband joined them in the perfectly-preserved living room from nineteen-eighty-seven. “Sheema! Ajay! Come and meet Dopinder’s . . . friend! Bring the baby!”

 

#

 

“So, Robert . . . what is it you do for a living?”

 

Bob looked up from Baby Georgie, who was happily flailing on Bob’s lap and drooling all over them both, his bright, dark eyes shining up at Bob as he gabbled in baby-talk. Bob had been nodding and occasionally agreeing with that baby-gabble for the past fifteen minutes he’d been holding the cute, happy little guy.

 

Now, he directed his attention to Ajay. “Oh, I’m . . . sort of an assistant. Sort of a social secretary. Sort of a . . . security professional. And, really . . . it’s just _Bob_.” At everyone’s—except Dopinder’s—blank, but curious gazes, Bob sighed and bounced Georgie, to the boy’s utter delight. “I work as a Jack-of-all-trades for a rich but very eccentric, uh, celebrity.”

 

Sheema’s eyes widened. “Oooh! Which one?”

 

“Uh.” Bob and Dopinder shared another glance. Not the first or last of the evening. “He’s, er, more famous in certain . . . esoteric social circles, than . . . hmm, say, Kardashian-famous,” Dopinder said almost smoothly. Bob nodded his agreement.

 

“What he said. Yep, I do a lot of what Mr. Wilson can’t really do himself without attracting, uh . . . attention. And I also babysit.”

 

“Oh.” Sheema seemed disappointed—according to Dopinder, she was _addicted_ to celebrity gossip shows and magazines—but Ajay nodded, seeming satisfied.

 

“Yes, that’s the way to go. Make yourself indispensable to a wealthy person. Job security.”

 

The two Murthy women rolled their eyes and Georgie made a loud: “GAH!” noise to reclaim Bob’s attention. Bob returned that attention happily, playing with the baby until he felt eyes on him. A glance up and around the room showed that everyone was watching him play with Georgie, even Dopinder’s somewhat distant father. And Mrs. Murthy and Sheema’s eyes were unusually soft and approving.

 

Dopinder looked incredibly fond and proud of him.

 

“Um.” Bob blushed, and Mrs. Murthy crossed her arms, huffing as if Bob had said something gauche.

 

“Tell us, er, Bob,” Mr. Murthy suddenly said, surprising everyone, apparently. “How did you and Dopinder meet? He’s been very evasive on that subject. But you may be truthful with us: was it at a leather-bar?”

 

“ _Abba_!” Dopinder exclaimed, startling poor Georgie, who looked over at his uncle with big eyes, as Dopinder groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose again.

 

Bob cleared his throat around a stifled laugh. “Uh, Dopinder and I _didn’t_ meet at a, a leather-bar, Mr. Murthy, sir. We actually met at a wedding reception. My, uh, boss and his husband got married and Dopinder was also invited to the wedding, and—”

 

“Oh, is this that mysterious Mr. Pool who sent Dopinder and that faithless _trash_ Gita Singh that amazing espresso-maker for their wedding?” Sheema asked, curious, vicious, and sweet at turns. Clearly she had _not_ gotten over her almost-sister-in-law running off on her brother, leaving him at the altar.

 

“Yes . . . that’d be my boss.” Bob left out the bit about how _he’d_ been the one to actually order and send the present after Mr. Wilson had decided what he'd wanted to send, and reimbursed Bob for the use of his credit card with unnecessary wads of slightly bloody cash.

 

“Oh, what a generous man!” Sheema said pleasantly. “We tried to send the espresso-maker back like everything else, but he returned it to us, with a note saying he would be _honored_ if our family would keep it as a token of his esteem. And since _Amma_ and _Abba_ don’t drink espresso, Ajay and I have given that lovely machine a _good_ home.”

 

“Better espresso-maker than the ones in _Hammacher-Schlemmer,_ ” Ajay noted approvingly.

 

Bob—who’d also been the one to send back the espresso-maker with the surprisingly charming note Mr. Wilson had dictated off the cuff—grinned.

 

“Mr. Wilson has excellent taste _and_ manners,” Bob said with a straight, if flaming face. Then he busied himself with entertaining Georgie again as the Murthy family talked around them about the generosity and style of the mysterious Mr. Pool.

 

Every so often, Bob could feel Dopinder’s gentle, fond smile like a benediction and was warmed to his increasingly less nervous core.

 

#

 

After dinner, which was, indeed, a spicy, exotic affair—though Bob was getting used to that, since he and Dopinder had spent the past week together, with Dopinder cooking for Bob whenever time and circumstance allowed—Mrs. Murthy, Sheema, and Dopinder cleared the table and went to wash the dishes, leaving Bob, Georgie, Ajay, and Mr. Murthy to sit in a relatively comfortable silence in the preserved living room.

 

Within minutes, Ajay was on his tablet, typing furiously between stroking his power-red tie and rubbing his nose with his index finger. Mr. Murthy merely watched Bob play with Georgie—who seemed genuinely taken with Bob, and had cried several times during the evening when anyone else picked him up—with a small smile on his face.

 

“You are quite good with children, Bob,” he finally said. Smiling, Bob looked up at Mr. Murthy.

 

“Well . . . sometimes, I’m just a big kid, myself. I guess they sense it and respond to it.” Bob shrugged, and Georgie laughed, trying to copy him.

 

“Hmm,” Mr. Murthy hummed thoughtfully. It was another few minutes before he spoke again. “You know . . . my son wanted children. Several, actually. Ever since he was little, he would talk about having children and being a father . . . it is a shame that he has to give up that dream, for Dopinder would make an _excellent_ and loving father.”

 

Bob’s brow furrowed. “No disrespect, Mr. Murthy, but . . . Dopinder can _still_ raise children. We can adopt. Or we could find a surrogate mother or a friend to co-parent with. There _are_ options for gay men looking to raise families, these days,” he said. Mr. Murthy’s brows _lifted_.

 

“ _We_ , you say,” he noted. Bob turned red and focused on tickling Georgie’s pudgy little tummy, till the boy laughed uproariously.

 

“Yes,” Bob replied, still red.

 

“Then you intend to share a life with my son. After knowing him for only one week.”

 

It wasn’t a question, exactly. But Bob answered, anyway. “Mr. Murthy . . . I’ve never known anyone like Dopinder and . . . I’ve met a lot of people in my life. He’s . . . the most _wonderful_ and loving person I’ve ever known. You’re right about that. And I’d fight for him, die for him . . . _live_ for him, if he’d let me. I know I’ve only known him for seven days, almost to the hour, but I feel as if . . . I’ve known him my _whole life_. But I’ve just been waiting to actually _meet_ him. Which makes no sense, I know. But it’s true. My _heart_ knows him, even if the rest of me is still playing catch-up.

 

“So, yes, I _do_ intend to share a life with him, if he’ll have me. Even after just one week. I want him to be my husband and, someday, the father— _other father_ —of my children. And I _do_ want several,” Bob added, smiling a little, looking into Georgie’s bright, curious eyes. “I want _everything_ with Dopinder. And for the rest of ever. I want to die at one hundred and six years old, in his arms, in my sleep. I want to spend the rest of whatever time I have on this planet looking into his eyes as often as possible. Because when I do, I know I’m _home_. _He_ _is_ my home. . . .”

 

“ _Bob_. . . .”

 

Startled, Bob glanced around to see the Murthy women and Dopinder standing in the archway to the living room, looking shocked—though Sheema also wore a satisfied little smile—Dopinder stepping forward slowly, as if he was afraid to disturb the scene in front of him.

 

Bob blushed, but held Dopinder’s wide-eyed gaze as he stood, a once-more-gabbling Georgie settled carefully in the crook of his left arm. "H-how long've you been, uh, standing there?"

 

Dopinder blinked, smiling just a little. "Long enough." Bob turned bright red but didn't look away. _Never be ashamed of your truth, Bobby,_ his mother used to say, and Bob had always taken that to heart. Had always tried to live his life in accordance with that philosophy.

 

But never had he felt quite this . . . _tested_ regarding the courage of his convictions.

 

Swallowing, he tried on a small smile, too. “I, uh . . . I was kinda saving all that to tell you at some point down the road. When it’d sound more romantic and less, um . . . cuckoo-bananas,” he admitted, meeting Dopinder halfway across the living room. Dopinder blinked and _really_ started to smile, wide and bright.

 

“That was the most romantic thing I’ve _ever_ heard, Robert Lindermann. And it was not _at all_ cuckoo-bananas,” he said softly, his eyes large and stricken. He stepped closer to Bob, reaching up to cup his face tenderly, two tears running down his face despite that sunshine-smile. “I do not have the words . . . cannot make them as poetic as what you just said. But yes, I feel the same way. I want _you_ to be the father of my children, and the last face I see every night and at the end of a long life spent together. And when I look into _your_ eyes, oh, yes . . . I am _home_.”

 

Bob slowly began to smile. “Golly,” he breathed. Then. “Wow. Um. This may, uh, be premature, but . . . I don’t have a ring for you. _Yet_.”

 

Dopinder shrugged, his own smile still shining out as big and sweet as ever. “That’s alright. Neither do I. Yet.”

 

Bob’s free right arm wound around Dopinder’s waist, tugging him even closer, till they were pressed against each other. "As soon as I can get one, I'm gonna ask you a question, Dopinder. And I hope you'll do me the honor of saying _yes_."

 

"You know I will," Dopinder replied in a voice thick with emotion and possibly unshed tears. Bob found himself grinning as his world suddenly and instantly fell into perfect place.

 

“I _love_ you, Dopinder Murthy,” he said in a voice that shook slightly, but only slightly. Another tear ran down Dopinder’s face and his smile became brighter than the sun Bob often compared it to.

 

“And I love _you_ , Bob Lindermann.”

 

Before they knew it, they were kissing each other gently, almost chastely. _Almost_. In any event, it didn’t last for long, because Georgie began hitting their faces, saying: “ _Bob-ba! Bob-ba!_ ”

 

Breaking the kiss, Bob and Dopinder looked at each other with wide eyes. Then at a grinning, toothless, drooling Georgie.

 

“Was that—”

 

“Yes, it was,” Dopinder replied, sounding touched and proud. “Georgie’s first word!”

 

“Oh—oh, my little _Beta_!” Sheema exclaimed, hustling over, sniffling as she lifted the startled and confused baby out of Bob’s arms. This time, Georgie went without a fuss, flailing at his mother, but still saying Bob’s name.

 

“How auspicious!” Sheema said, turning a warm gaze on Bob. Behind her, Mrs. Murthy grumbled something, but very nearly smiled at Bob. Ajay finally looked up from his tablet, mouth wide and gaping.

 

“Did he just say _Abba_?”

 

“No, it was _definitely_ _Bob_.” Dopinder and Sheema nodded. Bob blushed, looking at Mr. Murthy, who’d been watching the proceedings in thoughtful silence, as was his wont. Finally, he met Bob’s anxious gaze and cracked a crooked smile not unlike Dopinder’s. Not as sunny and sweet and gorgeous, of course, but still, the resemblance was now obvious.

 

“Out of the mouths of babes, eh?” he asked. Bob, still blushing, shrugged.

 

“Ah, it’s just a new, fun sound for Georgie,” he said, trying to downplay it. "He'll get sick of it pretty quickly."

 

“ _Bob-ba_!” Georgie crowed proudly from his mother's arms. Sighing, and thinking: _Yes, several of those,_ Bob waved at the little boy, who giggled and continued to repeat his version of Bob's name.

 

Then Dopinder embraced Bob again, making himself small and pliant in Bob’s arms, cleaving closely to the man he loved, one hand sweeping up and down Bob’s muscled back.

 

“Welcome to the Murthy family, my love,” he murmured with a soft, relieved sigh. Bob’s brown eyes widened, and after glancing down at the bundle of warmth and love and happiness in his arms, he looked around at the family that would one day be—or already _was_ , according to Dopinder— _his_.

 

After a few moments—during which Ajay abandoned his tablet to join his wife and son in an attempt to coax an _Abba_ , out of the small, but stubborn boy—Bob closed his eyes on sudden tears and held Dopinder as tight and close as he could, for as long as he could.

 

“It’s good to be here,” he whispered, kissing the crown of his lover’s head and breathing in the scents of exotic spices, incense, and something sweet and musky that was just _Dopinder_. “Thanks for having me.”


	2. Life in Other Rooms 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a lazy Sunday—lazier for some, than for others—and Peter and Weasel, and Bob and Dopinder have grown closer as couples. Smut and fluff and some light angst. Also? This song, “Runaway,” by Aurora, is Peter and Weasel’s song (https://youtu.be/d_HlPboLRL8). This is what was playing in my head and for real as I wrote their love scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Part one takes place starting one week after the initial hook-ups of the other pairings at Nate and Wade’s wedding reception. We are now, in part two, one month-post reception.

**One Month On: Jack and Peter**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half-awake, Weasel buried his face in Peter’s sweet-smelling hair and nape in an effort to keep the sun out of his eyes.

 

Peter, who was snoring lightly, limp as a dead fish in Weasel’s arms, didn’t so much as a stir. Dude slept like he was going for the Olympic gold in freestyle-sleeping. Despite the fact that Weasel and Peter only stayed over at each other’s places twice, maybe three times a week, Weasel had noticed this and a lot of other things about Peter that, when put together, spelled out something undoubtedly as fantastic as it was super-secret . . . but Weasel, who was usually pretty good at putting together puzzle pieces, couldn’t quite do that with Peter.

 

Or maybe he just didn’t _want_ _to_ because . . . what if he didn’t _like_ the picture those pieces formed?

 

 _Meh . . . too heavy for Sunday morning. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. In the meantime, it’s time to either fuck or go back to sleep for another couple of hours_ , Weasel thought, pushing his hips forward till his late-morning wood was pressed against Peter’s ass. At the same time, he slid the hand resting on Peter’s sternum, down to his groin and—

 

 _BINGO! We have a winner!_ Weasel grinned and stroked Peter’s late-morning wood slow and gentle, till the other man started to stir in his arms, making happy, snuffling noises into his pillow.

 

Squinting his eyes carefully open as he sat up a little, Weasel waited a minute for them to acclimate, then reluctantly let go of Peter’s cock to feel on his night table for the lube—he and Peter tended to go through it like _crazy_. Weasel had started buying it in bulk—even as Peter hummed sleepily.

 

“Don’ stop,” he burbled, only half-conscious, snorting and sighing. Weasel flicked open the lube cap and kissed Peter behind his ear, pausing to nibble on the lobe, till Peter giggled sleepily, turning slightly toward him, one slow, heavy arm coming up till Peter could run his tender fingers along Weasel’s stubbly jaw. “You feel so _good_. . . .”

 

“Just gettin’ the slick, baby.” With another lingering kiss, Weasel sat up a little more, easing his dead right arm out from under Peter’s sleep-weighty body, shook out the pins and needles, then squirted a decent amount of lube into his palm to warm. Peter, mostly awake, by now, rolled onto his back and squinted up at Weasel, his lips curved in a slight smile.

 

“You know I’m probably still pretty slick and stretched from last night. And this morning, right?” he asked, covering his mouth as he yawned, then blinked up at Weasel, seeming even more awake. In the light of late morning, Peter’s dark eyes seemed a lighter, more golden brown, and Weasel sighed. He did that around Peter a lot, he’d noticed. _Just another puzzle piece_ , he supposed. “I’ll bet the lion’s share of your come is still inside me. Probably don’t need lube at all.”

 

“Anything’s possible, baby,” Weasel agreed, even as he slicked up his dick and put on a show for Peter, whose eyes opened even wider, and the pink tip of his tongue came out to swipe his lips. “But you know Daddy likes to take care of his baby . . . and likes a _little_ more certainty than _probably_ where his boy’s concerned.”

 

Peter’s smile widened and he spread his long legs invitingly, giving Weasel one _helluva_ view, to boot. “You don’t have to worry about hurting me, Jack-honey. I’m . . . resilient.”

 

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.” Weasel snorted, then reached for the lube again. A minute later, he was pushing two slick fingers into Peter’s waiting, twitching anticipatory hole, to a series of soft hisses and the slow, sinuous arch of Peter’s back off Weasel’s bed (a sturdy California King, and Weasel considered it the best purchase of his adult life). But he never broke his steady gaze from Weasel’s and that . . . that was so fucking _hot_ , Weasel’s cock twitched like a nervous cat, droozling precome at a serious rate. And Peter was still licking his lips in that hungry-sexy-freaky way. “Fuck, baby, I know you like it when it hurts and it’s rough, but maybe . . . maybe I just wanna . . . make it _sweet_ for you, for once.”

 

Peter’s pretty dark eyes widened in surprise and Weasel turned red, his hand on his dick slowing. He replayed what he said, and . . . yeah. It sounded just as pathetic as he’d thought it had. “Uh. By which I mean . . . um. We should kinda take it easy so I don’t get dick-chafe and you don’t, uh, tear, or something. You know. An ounce of prevention, and all that.”

 

Peter blinked and sat up. Then he was on his knees and wrapping his strong, wiry arms around Weasel’s neck, his eyes so close they were Weasel’s entire universe.

 

“Jack.” Peter’s brow furrowed and he turned such a fetching shade of pink that Weasel’s _heart_ sighed, this time, soft and wistful. “Jack, do you . . . do you mean you wanna, um . . . _make love to me_ instead of, um, fucking me?”

 

“Uh. Maybe? Kinda?” At the slightly disappointed flicker in Peter’s eyes, Weasel sighed and decided to try some honesty since he’d already come this far. “Okay . . . _yeah_. Yeah, I do, Pete. I wanna . . . _fuck_! I wanna lay you down and make you feel as beautiful and wonderful as you are. I wanna worship your body, which—in case I haven’t said it often enough—is fucking _slammin’_. I wanna learn you by touch and taste and scent, and for you to just . . . lay back and let go. To just _relax_ and let me take care of you, baby.”

 

Now, Peter’s eyes were practically the size of dinner plates. Shiny ones.

 

“Jack, I. . . .” Peter’s eyes fluttered shut and a moment later, he was hugging Weasel tight. Way tighter than such a compact man should’ve been able to. But Weasel didn’t really notice or care, simply hugged Peter back. “Brownie points for making me wibble, asshole.”

 

Weasel snorted and laughed. “How many points am I up to, now?”

 

“Oh, at least eleventy billion,” Peter replied blithely, leaning back just enough to kiss Weasel silly. (Their horrible morning breath, thankfully, canceled each other out.) Before either of them knew it they were prone once more, Peter pinned by Weasel—for once, and it was exhilarating . . . for Weasel, at least. He _really_ hoped Peter was digging it, too—with arms and legs wrapped around Weasel almost panicky-tight. Weasel already had two fingers prostate-deep in Peter’s lube-y, still somewhat stretched hole, rubbing and stroking Peter’s sweet-spot for all he was worth, till he could taste the salt of tears in their kiss.

 

“Y’okay, Pete?” he murmured on the corner of Peter’s mouth, before leaning back just a bit to look at Peter’s face, even as his fingers stilled their ministrations. Peter’s dark eyes were in a sea of pinkish-red, tears leaking from them steadily, but his pupils were fat with awe and . . . something Weasel couldn’t quite name.

 

But whatever it was, it made him feel like a million bucks.

 

“ _Please_ don’t stop, Jack,” Peter whispered, bobbing up to steal a sweet, fleeting kiss. “Feels _so_ good. _You_ feel so _good_ in me.”

 

“And you feel so good _around_ _me_ , baby. Like . . . _perfect_.” Weasel pulled out of Peter, then added his ring finger to the mix. Peter gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as his body spasmed around Weasel’s thick fingers just a bit. “You’re so _beautiful_ , Pete.”

 

“ _Jack_ ,” Peter breathed, eyes still squinched shut since the kiss, and biting his lower lip so hard, Weasel was surprised he didn’t bloody it. He began to kiss Peter again, coaxing his lower lip from between his teeth, until Peter was actually returning his kiss as sweetly and slow as a love-song, one hand gaining nails-deep purchase in Weasel’s shoulder, the other carding through Weasel’s hair.

 

Several minutes later, Weasel was easing his fingers out of Peter and lining his dick up to the twitching, swollen pucker while he held Peter’s cheeks open.

 

“Baby,” he panted, nuzzling Peter’s nose with his own. “Baby, look at me.”

 

By the time Weasel leaned up enough to see Peter’s face, Peter’s eyes were open wide, still leaking tears sporadically, still reddened and filled with awe . . . as well as that other million bucks-look that rocked and warmed Weasel to his core.

 

“ _Please_ ,” Peter begged, his thighs tightening around Weasel’s waist and his arms around Weasel’s neck. “I _need you_.”

 

“Yeah, Pete. The feeling’s mutual,” Weasel said around a strange ache in his throat. Then he was taking a deep breath as he began the slow, steady push into Peter’s furnace-hot body. His and Peter’s gazes held until Weasel bottomed out a sweet eternity later, and Peter threw back his head, crying out softly, desperately. Weasel kissed Peter’s throat, lingering over the fast, strong pulse.

 

“ _Please, please, Jack . . . please_. . . .” Peter kept gasping, his body clamping down and clenching desperation-tight around Weasel’s cock. It was almost painful to pull out for that and many other reasons, but Weasel did, as gently and slowly as he could, then drove back in neither fast nor slow, but implacably, clutching at Peter’s ass so hard, he knew he was leaving fresh bruises on top of faded ones.

 

A few thrusts later Weasel found a rhythm that he could sustain and that seemed to drive Peter absolutely _bugshit_ , for the way he was clawing-up Weasel’s back. Then, after some experimental hip-swiveling, Weasel found Peter’s spot again, realizing it when Peter’s body instantly locked down on him like Fort Knox and the other man threw his head back again, gasping in a hoarse breath. The eventual exhalation was definitely trying to be Weasel’s name.

 

“That’s it, baby . . . you’re so good . . . so good to me,” Weasel murmured, not even really knowing _what_ he was saying as he nibbled hickeys into Peter’s neck. All he knew was that not only was _his_ dick in Heaven, but it’d managed to take Peter’s _ass_ with it. And that was very much of the good.

 

He could feel Peter’s hot, hard cock pressed between them, wet and leaking steadily, as Peter continued to gasp and moan and groan. Weasel stepped up his pace, while still keeping his rhythm and the power behind his thrusts, swiveling his hips every time he drove himself home into Peter’s willing, wanting flesh. He could tell he was hitting Peter’s prostate like a battering ram, more often than he wasn’t, and it wasn’t too long before Peter went still, his body strung tight and throat bared to Weasel’s kisses and bites. His body tightened around Weasel like a vise and his Adam’s apple bobbed almost comically, his lips parting slightly as if to sigh.

 

“Oh, _Jack_ ,” he breathed so softly. Then he was coming hard, hot, and a _lot_ all over Weasel’s gut and chest.

 

Weasel moaned stealing kiss after kiss from Peter’s pretty, swollen mouth, trying to suck the taste of his name from those perfect lips as his body continued to thrust and pull-out on autopilot, working toward its own wonderful, world-ending climax.

 

It wasn’t until after Peter went limp beneath him with another soft, sated sigh, his body relaxing so profoundly, that Weasel went even deeper than he’d ever gone on his next thrust, as if Peter’s body trusted him . . . had given him more than ever before because he’d _earned_ _it_ , somehow.

 

“Oh, fuck, _Pete_!” he groaned from behind gritted teeth, eyes closing as his thrusts sped up, gaining power but losing rhythm almost entirely. “ _Fuck_ , gonna. . . .”

 

“Mm . . . _please_ , Jack . . . give it to me . . . give it _all_ to me. . . .”

 

As if all his body had been waiting for had been Peter’s breathless murmur, Weasel’s body pistoned into Peter’s half a dozen more times in rapid succession before it went utterly still . . . then exploded like Fourth of July.

 

Weasel wasn’t even aware that he had shouted—had _been shouting_ —until he collapsed on Peter what felt like _hours_ later, at last emptied and limp, and more sated than he’d ever been in his life. He attempted to speak and his throat, he noticed, felt utterly _raw_.

 

“Fuck . . . where’s m’voice gone?” he croaked against the skin of Peter’s neck. Peter, still under him but seemingly without complaint, giggled a little, sounding pretty hoarse, himself.

 

“Same place mine went, Daddy,” was his faux-sweet, faux-sleepy reply. Weasel all but whimpered as his wrecked body and drained dick tried to rally because of that way too innocent reply.

 

“ _Fuck_ , you’re evil,” he finally decided and Peter chuckled, sounding far too awake and energized for a man being crushed immediately after the best sex ever. “’M I crushing you?”

 

“Nope,” Peter said happily, his arms and legs tightening around Weasel once more. “Feels good.”

 

“You sure, baby? ‘Cause I c’n move . . . soon as I find m’ limbs, that is. . . .”

 

“Believe me, Daddy, if I needed you moved you would be.” Peter snorted softly, nuzzling Weasel’s sweaty hair. “So just . . . relax and use me as a body-pillow, if you want. Okay?”

 

“’Kay, baby,” Weasel sighed, letting his body do just that. “You’re _so_ awesome.”

 

“Feeling’s mutual.” Peter kissed the crown of Weasel’s head and for a while, there was a comfortable, companionable silence that lulled Weasel halfway to sleep. Then: “Say, you got any, uh . . . plans for this evening? ‘Round six p.m.?”

 

“Mm?” Weasel was barely conscious and having trouble processing his own thoughts, let alone Peter’s words. “Um . . . was gonna get baked and binge-watch the most recent series of the _Great British Bake-Off,_ which you’re more’n welcome to do with me.”

 

“You and my Aunt May must’ve been separated at birth,” Peter said, laughing again, but somewhat anxiously, it seemed. “At any rate, I was only asking because . . . well, speaking of my Aunt May, every Sunday evening, I have dinner at her house and . . . well, I was thinking that maybe you might . . . wanna come with me, if you weren’t busy.”

 

Weasel perked up a bit, actually opening his eyes and looking up till he could see Peter looking down at him, smiling a crooked half-smile.

 

“For realsies?” he asked, eyebrows shooting up when Peter nodded. “Wow, that’s . . . I mean . . . what’ve you told her? About me—or _us_ —or . . . _me_ , I mean?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes but his smile widened. “I told her that I’m seeing a guy I _really_ like. That he’s smart and funny and he treats me better than anyone I’ve ever . . . well. And I told her that you’re a friend of Wade’s, and she _loves_ Wade—probably more than she loves _me_ —so . . . you’re _already_ good in her book.” He leaned his forehead against Weasel’s. “But you don’t have to come with me, if that’s . . . weird for you. If it’s . . . too soon?”

 

Weasel pecked Peter’s lips then the tip of his nose. “Won’t she mind if I tag along and interrupt you guys’ family time?”

 

“Considering she’s been asking me for the past three weeks when I’m planning to bring you by to meet her . . . I’d say not,” Peter mumbled, sounding chagrined and a bit embarrassed.

 

Weasel grinned. “Talk about me a lot, do you?”

 

“You . . . may have come up, once or twice,” Peter allowed, sniffing loftily. Weasel kissed him again, this time for quite a bit longer.

 

“Mmm . . . someone’s got a crush on me,” Weasel sing-songed before he thought better of it. Then he was gritting his teeth and wincing as he sat up just enough to see Peter’s face, an apology on his lips.

 

But Peter didn’t seem angry or even slightly upset. He was just smiling up at Weasel as if he was proud of him for figuring it out at last.

 

“Yes . . . a crush. Something like that,” was all Peter said. Then his smile turned positively evil and before Weasel could even groan in protest—he knew, even after just a month, _exactly_ what that particular look meant—Peter had done one of those sick, bendy take-down moves and put Weasel flat on his back. Those lean but strong thighs straddled Weasel’s tightly and Peter made himself at home on Weasel’s chest, arms folded, chin resting on them as he gave a lazy sigh.

 

Weasel’s own sigh, when the world stopped pitching and yawing, was far more put-upon than it was lazy. “Jesus, Pete, a little warning before you do that.”

 

“Hmm, but where’s the fun in _that_?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Weasel wrapped his arms around Peter’s waist before sliding his hands down to cup Peter’s ass. “How do you even know how to _do_ that, babe? I mean you’re fit and everything—bendy as a _motherfucker_. But shouldn’t the laws of physics or something make most of the shit you like to do, in bed and out of it, kinda . . . impossible?”

 

“Meh.” Peter shrugged, his eyes amused and playful. “Maybe the laws of physics are like me: more bendy than advertised.”

 

“Maybe, I guess,” Weasel said doubtfully, his eyes drifting up to his ceiling for a minute, before he went on. “Look, I’ve actually been kinda wondering about it for a couple weeks and . . . I’m pretty sure you’re a mutant. I mean, I don’t know what your powers are, exactly, and who else, besides Wade and maybe Nate, know, but . . . yeah.” He met Peter’s wide, but suddenly unreadable eyes. “I get it if you don’t feel ready to tell me or talk about it. And that’s fine, y’know? But I just want you to know that—if you’re angstin’ about it, _don’t_. Because I don’t _care_ about your genes. As far as _I’m_ concerned, any genetics that come together to create a face—not to mention an _ass_ —like _yours_ are to be praised. I don’t _care_ if you’re a mutant. As you know, my _best friend_ is a mutant. And some of my other friends, too. So having a _boyfriend_ who’s a mutant isn’t exactly a problem for me. Besides which—”

 

But Peter unfolded his left arm and put his first two fingers over Weasel’s lips before he could finish his increasingly directionless ramble.

 

They stared into each other’s eyes for long moments, layers of understanding passing between them, most of which Weasel acknowledged, even though he didn’t quite know their shape, yet.

 

“Did you just . . . call me your _boyfriend_?” Peter asked finally, a slow grin taking his face as his fingers drifted to Weasel’s unshaven cheek, where they stroked tenderly, fondly. Weasel snorted and rolled his eyes.

 

“Okay, totally _not_ what I thought you’d respond to first, but . . . yeah. I did. What of it?”

 

Peter closed his eyes for a minute, still grinning and breathing slowly, softly. In the late morning light, he was a golden, goddamn _demi-god_. He was Icarus on the wing. He was Narcissus at the pool. He was Ganymede with his face upturned to Zeus. He was. . . .

 

 _Everything_.

 

“I’ve only ever told one person I dated about . . . my abilities,” Peter said quietly, opening his eyes. They were sad and a little scared, but hopeful. “Not too long after I told him, he, uh . . . he tried to kill me. Several times, actually.”

 

“The _fuck_?” Weasel breathed, half-sitting up, ready to send a drone to this clearly crazy motherfucker’s house . . . _whoever_ he was, and turn the asshole's whole _neighborhood_ into smoking rubble. Fucking _end_ this piece of shit for trying to hurt someone as pure and good as _Peter-fucking-Parker_. “What’s the fuck’s his name?”

 

“Unimportant,” Peter said firmly, his eyes going hard and forbidding for a moment. Then he blinked and they were soft and sad, again. He pushed Weasel back to the bed way too easily . . . a gentle admission that Weasel was, indeed, right about him being a mutant. “I didn’t even tell Aunt May until a year ago that I . . . have these abilities and that I’m. . . .”

 

Peter sighed again, hanging his head. “Fuck, Jack. This is . . . difficult.”

 

“You don’t . . . you don’t have to, you know?” Weasel’s voice was low and understanding. “I get it if you don’t wanna.”

 

“But that’s just it, I _do_ want to. More than anything.” Peter met Weasel’s gaze again. “Not to jump the gun, but . . . I feel like this thing between us is . . . something pretty special. Or it has the potential to be, if we take care of it. And I don’t just invite any-ol’-body to Sunday dinner at Aunt May’s, you know?”

 

Weasel grinned. “Well, I’m _not_ just _any-ol'-body_ , baby. You _do_ have a crush on me, after all.”

 

“There _is_ that,” Peter said, chuckling a little, before his smile faded. “I don’t want you to think, if I wait to tell you, that I didn’t trust you, because . . . I do. More than I do a lot of people who already, through some unfortunate accidents, know my secret. But I _also_ don’t wanna scare you off, because . . . I’m not just a mutant, Jack. I’m . . . I’m a mutant who’s also an Avenger.”

 

Weasel’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. “No fuckin’ _way_!” he crowed, laughing and hugging Peter to him. “Oh, fuck _me_ , that’s so _cool_! Do you like— _know_ those guys and hang out with them, and shit? Do you have your own floor in the Tower? _Dude_!” Weasel’s eyes grew even wider. “Have you _saved the world_ , lately?”

 

Peter blinked. “Me, _personally_? _This_ world? Um. Not _lately_ , no. Though Thor and I had this whole adventure on an alternate Earth two months ago, just before Wade and Nate’s wedding, and—well, kinda classified, but . . . we _did_ save that place, so . . . and it was _an_ Earth. Incidentally, in _that_ world, I’m actually Chinese. Go figure,” he added bemusedly. This time Weasel blinked.

 

“Is Chinese-you’s ass as amazing as yours?”

 

“Eh,” Peter said, shrugging. Then he settled on Weasel’s chest again, smiling once more. “Shall I tell you, or do you wanna guess which Avenger I am?”

 

“Well, I know you’re not Thor, I guess. Or Deadpool.” Weasel grinned and Peter rolled his eyes.

 

“How astute of you.”

 

“Are . . . are you. . . ?” Weasel squinted as the puzzle pieces finally slid together to form a picture he could clearly see: Peter’s agility, his bendiness, his speed, his dexterity, his—in hindsight—super-strength, and the fact that there was really only _one_ Avenger ever seen hanging around with _Deadpool_ when the world _wasn’t_ on the brink of destruction. Besides Bruce Banner, that was, and Peter was definitely not _Banner_. “Jesus, Pete, are you . . . are you _Spider-Man_?”

 

Peter’s smile widened, but it was sad and scared again. “More nights than I’m not, these days, yeah.”

 

Weasel was gaping once more. “And here I thought you were just not into seeing me more than three nights a week!”

 

“No! Jack—I would be with you _every_ night if I could! But I still . . . I have responsibilities. Gotta patrol. And Fury holds these damn time-vampire meetings that last all night sometimes. Like the man doesn’t even _sleep_ ,” Peter grumbled. Then he met Weasel’s eyes again. “I’ve been trying so hard to see you as much as possible. And I know it’s not enough, but I can’t just _not_ be _Spider-Man_ , even when that’s all I _want_ —to just be a regular guy who spends his nights getting sexed-up by his incredibly hot, wonder-dicked boyfriend. _God_ , if I _could_ , Jack—”

 

“I know, baby, I know. The needs of the many. And it’s cool, believe me,” Weasel interrupted Peter to say. Then thought about it. “Well, I don’t like the idea of you in danger or getting shot at or having the shit kicked out of you by hostile aliens, but . . . I know that if there’s anyone that can do what _you_ do and _half_ as well as you _do it_ , I’ll smile and kiss a pig. If this city and this world need Spider-Man as much as _I need_ Pete Parker, then . . . I guess it needs him a _helluva_ lot.”

 

Weasel’s hands slid back up to Peter’s waist, then his arms were wrapped around Peter tight. Peter heaved another sigh, this one tremulous.

 

“You’re taking this really well,” he said evenly, without inflection. Weasel chuckled, still feeling relief in tremendous waves that it was safe to still _like_ Pete Parker without reservation or mitigation. That the puzzle came together to form something so wonderful and cool, Weasel was pretty sure he didn’t deserve it. That the Fates or Powers or whomever, had made some mistake. That the boyfriend Peter _actually deserved_ was stuck on a shit date somewhere in Buffalo, N.Y., with a mistake that should’ve been all Weasel’s.

 

“Well. It’ll take some getting used to, but . . . I expect that won’t be _too_ difficult. Though I _do_ have some pressing queries. . . .”

 

Peter’s left eyebrow quirked. “Such as? I can answer quite a few commonly asked questions before stuff becomes, um, classified.”

 

Weasel settled in for a bit of a Q & A session. “How much can you _bench_? I mean, like, on a really _good_ day?”

 

Peter’s other eyebrow joined its mate, as if to say: _Really?_ That’s _what you’re gonna ask me?_ Then he shook his head and laughed a little.

 

“Well . . . let’s just say: more than Cap, but less than the Hulk.”

 

“Holy _shit_ , that’s hot!”

 

“Really?” Peter asked shyly, wrinkling his nose.

 

“Oh, fuck, yeah! Wow! I didn’t think you could pull it off, but somehow, you’ve become even _sexier_!” Weasel sighed happily. “Carry me to your Aunt May’s?”

 

Peter’s eyes widened. “What? The whole way?”

 

“If it’s no trouble. . . .”

 

“I _could_. Like, _literally_. But, dude, _no_. That’d be attention neither of us can afford.” Peter sounded adamant and Weasel pouted for a few seconds, before closing his eyes.

 

“Fine, then. I’ll settle for . . . hmm, brunch in bed.”

 

“Oh, _really_? _You’ll settle_ for me being generous enough to drag my ass out of bed on a cold, Sunday morning to procure us brunch?”

 

“Mm. My wallet’s on the table near the front door. So’re my keys. Go nuts.”

 

Peter grumbled again, but started to shift in preparation to get up. Then he huffed. “I can’t get up if you won’t let me _go_ , jerk.”

 

“Don’t _wanna_ let you go, baby. Kind of a conundrum, I'll admit. . . .”

 

Peter heaved yet another sigh, but settled back on Jack. “Fine, we can both starve till Aunt May’s.”

 

“Or . . . or we could order-in. The _Moonstruck Diner_ makes a great Reuben _and_ they deliver. _Fast_.”

 

“And you’re _just now_ mentioning this because. . . ?”

 

“Just _thought_ of it, jeez. Gimme a break, Parker.” Weasel opened his eyes and reached toward the night table. Almost knocked his glasses to the floor—Peter caught them with his _sick_ spidey-reflexes, then parked them on Weasel’s face—then grabbed his phone. “Yeah, _great_ Reubens but they’ll make just about anything you want.”

 

“Hmm . . . you order _for_ me. I dunno what I want, but I’m so hungry, I feel like I could eat a whole city block!” Peter admitted.

 

“Well, baby, you’d be surprised what they can fit in a deep-fryer, these days,” Weasel said as his own stomach growled and Peter snuggled on top of him with a soft, happy sigh. With one arm still around Peter, Weasel dialed his favorite diner by heart and stroked his boyfriend’s back while he placed their orders: two Reuben deluxes, extra mayo and deli mustard on the side, extra pickles, two orders of onion rings, and two slabs of apple streudel.

 

A minute later, after he gave his credit card info, also by heart, and they confirmed the delivery address, Weasel hung up and hugged Peter closer, kissing the top of his head. “Approximately twenty-five minutes till Brunch Achievement is unlocked, baby.”

 

“Mm. _Awesome_. That was _masterfully_ done, sir. Bravo!” Peter mumbled sounding half-asleep again. Weasel chuckled.

 

“What can I say? I’ve had a lotta practice.”

 

**One Month On: Bob and Dopinder**

 

 

 

“Honey? I’m home!”

 

Bob looked over and down from his perch at what was very nearly the top of the ladder, and smiled as Dopinder shut their front door, locking it behind him, and smiling.

 

“Heyya, sweetheart!” Bob called warmly, carefully making his way down the ladder and placing the paint-roller in the tray of beige paint. Then he was crossing the room to pull his boyfriend—who met him halfway—into his arms for a long, _long_ kiss hello.

 

“Wow . . . I should work Sundays more often,” Dopinder hummed happily, wrapping his arms around Bob’s neck and sighing.

 

“Ugh. Don’t even. Two Sundays a month is bad enough,” Bob grumped, holding Dopinder around the waist even tighter. “Sundays are either the best days or worst days of the week, depending on the week.”

 

“I feel the same.” Dopinder sighed again, burying his face in Bob’s bare shoulder for a few moments. Then he looked up and around their newly-painted living room. “Wow! But you’ve gotten so much done since I left this morning! You did the whole living room, almost!”

 

“And the guest room and what used to be Ellie’s and Hope’s room,” Bob added grinning. Dopinder pouted.

 

“And all _without_ me. I’m no help at all, am I?”

 

“You’re _plenty_ help, Dopinder.” Bob kissed his boyfriend’s nose. “You’re the _best_ help. But you’re also holding down a job, which I’m currently not. And may not be for a while, unless this thing with Avengers’ Tower security comes through.”

 

“I told you: that doesn’t matter. They’d be crazy not to hire you, but even if they’re utterly insane and decide not to, I can support us both for as long as necessary.” Dopinder tucked his head under Bob’s chin, making himself small. Bob, obligingly, made himself a little larger, wrapping himself as much as he could around Dopinder’s smaller, slimmer frame.

 

“Well, you shouldn’t _have_ to. I’ve been working steadily since I was sixteen. I wouldn’t know what to _do_ without a job for more than a couple weeks. I don’t want you to bear the burden of supporting us both on your shoulders, even if we _don’t_ have to worry about paying rent since Mr. Wilson gave us this place.” Bob sighed, swaying them to the music he could hear faintly from the apartment below. Their neighbor was an older Polish woman with a love of nocturnes . . . especially Chopin’s. “I just . . . I want to _contribute_.”

 

Dopinder chuckled. “You’ve painted almost the entire apartment on your own, re-tiled the kitchen floor by yourself perfectly—that sea-blue tile is so _gorgeous_ , by the way—installed the washer-dryer, _and_ repaired the damage to the wall that was behind Mr. and Mr. Pool’s bed, and you think you are _not contributing_?”

 

“Well. . . .”

 

Chuckling again, Dopinder bobbed up on his toes to steal another three kisses. “I love you, Bob.”

 

“And I love you, Dopinder.”

 

Another few kisses later and Dopinder was moaning and pressing his body against Bob’s. “Have I told you how _sexy_ you look painting the walls with no shirt on?”

 

“Hmm . . . you might have mentioned it, a time or two.”

 

“ _Only_ a time or two? Then clearly I have been remiss and not been mentioning it enough.” Dopinder was getting hard, so of course, _Bob_ was getting hard, too. But the gaze he turned on Bob managed to be ultra-solemn. “You look _very sexy_ when you paint the walls with no shirt on, Bob Lindermann.”

 

“Sweetheart, I’m . . . covered in paint and I probably don’t smell that great either,” Bob said ruefully, regretfully. Dopinder grinned up at him.

 

“Perhaps. But I want you _right now_ , nonetheless. And once the afterglow has faded we can shower, and then make a late lunch, since I know you haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Dopinder’s eyebrows shot up knowingly and Bob blushed.

 

“Yeah . . . kinda lost track of time. You know how I get once I start something.”

 

“Indeed, I do. So, what do you say to starting _me_ , and seeing how much time you can lose track of?”

 

Bob’s eyebrows shot up, too. “Gosh, but you’re just—wonderful!”

 

Dopinder laughed, then gasped and giggled when Bob swept him up and dashed to their bedroom, formerly Mr. Wilson’s and Mr. Summers’. Once there, he laid Dopinder down on their new bed and knelt next to him to steal a few kisses of his own before jumping up. Dopinder moaned piteously, holding out his arms and pouting again.

 

“I’m just gonna wash my hands, sweetheart! I’ll be gone thirty seconds—forty-five, tops,” Bob promised, laughing.

 

“That’s still far too long,” Dopinder whined, but he was giggling again. Bob hurried into the master bathroom, washed his hands _and_ rinsed his mouth out with Listerine, leaving himself seven seconds to spare, before darting back out into the bedroom.

 

Dopinder was, somehow, already undressed completely, and under their duvet and sheets, waiting for Bob with a blinding smile that made Bob’s knees go weak. He leaned against the doorpost for a few moments, just looking at his boyfriend and being utterly in love.

 

Meanwhile, said boyfriend quirked an eyebrow and looked Bob over with great desire and satisfaction, lingering at groin level. “Oh, my . . . is _all that_ for _me_?” he asked cheekily, his dark, lovely eyes meeting Bob’s.

 

“Always,” Bob replied simply, then he shoved himself away from the doorpost, kicking off his paint-spattered sneakers as he pushed down his paint-spattered sweatpants, easing them over his erection carefully, before kicking them off, too.

 

Then he was sliding into their bed, under the cool sheets and the heavy duvet Dopinder had invitingly flipped up for him. Instantly, Dopinder was in his arms, all warm, soft skin and musk-sweet familiar scent. Bob kissed his boyfriend tenderly at first, though the intensity of the kiss increased, as did their moans—especially Dopinder’s. Bob rolled on top of him, grinding against Dopinder’s hard-on until the other man was bucking up against him and flailing at his night table for a tube of lube.

 

When he got it, he made a triumphant sound into their kiss that made Bob chuckle, as his kisses wended their way to Dopinder’s ear, where he lingered to nibble the lobe gently. Dopinder gasped and moaned loudly, pressing the tube into Bob’s right hand.

 

Not needing to be told twice, Bob left off his teasing and sat up, throwing the duvet and sheets off them both, towards the foot of the bed, grinning like a madman. Dopinder’s eyes widened and he flushed, clearly resisting the urge to cover himself as he looked everywhere but Bob’s eyes.

 

“Please don’t be shy, sweetheart . . . you’re _gorgeous_ ,” Bob whispered. Dopinder risked a glance up at him. He looked, quite suddenly, _miserable_.

 

“You don’t have to . . . I _know_ I’m scrawny and stringy, compared to you . . . you’re so strong and golden and _beautiful_ —”

 

“Dopinder . . . baby, _you’re_ so beautiful I don’t even have the words to tell you just how beautiful you are! You’re lovely, sexy, so . . . _fantastic_ , that my body does _this_ ,” Bob pointed with his free hand at his red, leaking erection, “every time I get near you. Not just in our bedroom or after you’ve touched me. But _every_ time.”

 

Dopinder’s gaze dropped to Bob’s hard-on and he smiled a little. “Really?”

 

“Really.” Bob snorted. “Sometimes, even when I’m not near you, just thinking about you—your smile, your laugh, that cute, snuffling-thing you do when you first wake up—makes me so damn _hard_ I can barely stand it! And even if I, you know . . . _take matters into my own hands_ , that doesn’t help much. It just curbs the worst of it.” Dropping the lube on their bed, Bob leaned forward and took Dopinder’s hands in his and kissed them. “Being with you, like this, is the only thing that sates me. For a little while, anyway. Because as soon as I’ve caught my breath, I’m hungry for you again. And again. And _again_.”

 

“Oh, _Bob_ ,” Dopinder murmured, freeing his hands to cup Bob’s face in them. His dark eyes seemed to glow with happiness in the moments before he kissed Bob passionately, pulling Bob back down to the bed on top of him. He kept bucking up against Bob, his erection gone as painfully hard as Bob’s, and smearing precome all over Bob’s abdomen.

 

“Please, Bob . . . my love, oh, _please_. . . .”

 

Bob smiled into their kiss, certainly not needing to be told twice what Dopinder needed _this time_.

 

“Yes. Of course, darling,” he breathed, trailing kisses down to Dopinder’s throat, inhaling that sweet, musky scent he loved, before nibbling a trail down to Dopinder’s collar bones nipping the skin with careful, loving teeth. Then his next kisses took a path to Dopinder’s right nipple, at turns nibbling and laving and sucking, before turning his attentions to the left nipple. (By this time, he’d long since had to pin Dopinder’s wild hips to the bed.)

 

Bob followed the dark track of hair down to Dopinder’s erection, taking several long moments to gaze at it—he loved the look of his boyfriend’s dick, something which Mr. Wilson had always claimed was _the most_ important part of any sexual relationship between two men. And while Bob thought it was probably _pretty_ important, he was sure there were things that mattered _more_ —before kissing the crown, till his lips were covered in precome and Dopinder was babbling pleading nonsense, still trying to buck his pinned hips.

 

Licking his wetted lips, Bob proceeded to then lick every trace of precome from his boyfriend’s erection, till Dopinder’s attempts at thrusting weakened to desperate twitches of his pelvis.

 

“Bob . . . Bob. . . .” he kept saying, whispering as if he was on the edge of tears. Bob kissed his way back up Dopinder’s shaft, pausing at the tip before taking it into his mouth and sucking firmly.

 

Dopinder made a gargling, choking sound and arched up off the bed. He might’ve even come, but for Bob’s hand clamping down on the base of his erection.

 

“Easy, Dopinder . . . I got ya,” he soothed, pulling off to give his boyfriend time to calm down some. When Dopinder stopped panting quite so hard and opened his screwed tight-shut eyes to gaze down his body at Bob, Bob smiled. “Okay?”

 

Dopinder nodded, his eyes huge in his flushed face as Bob took him in again . . . deeper, this time, until Dopinder was practically halfway down Bob’s throat and Bob’s face was all but pressed against Dopinder’s pubic hair. Then, carefully removing his hand from the base of Dopinder’s erection, Bob began to swallow and hum alternately around Dopinder, his hands gentle, but restraining on Dopinder’s hips. But not _too_ restraining. He gladly let Dopinder use his mouth, thrust up into it and down his throat, but at a rhythm Bob was guiding and partially controlling.

 

“Oh, _Bob_ . . . I’m— _I’m_ —” Dopinder began to gasp in warning, and Bob quickly, but carefully, pulled off Dopinder’s erection a few moments before Dopinder climaxed. Just in time for Bob to get a literal face full of come.

 

Smiling from ear-to-ear as Dopinder’s come ran down his face, Bob kissed and nibbled his way back up Dopinder’s shaking, twitching, spasming body, till he reached Dopinder’s lips. Bob gazed down into wide, dazed dark eyes that were barely tracking his face.

 

“ _So gorgeous_ ,” Bob murmured tenderly, kissing those sweet, soft lips . . . a wonderful contrast to the salty taste of Dopinder’s skin and come—most of which was still dripping down Bob’s face and neck. “How could I see you as anything other than the most beautiful creature in the world?”

 

Dopinder moaned into the kiss and started to respond, his leaden-seeming arms wrapping heavily around Bob’s neck. But the kiss didn’t last long, as one of them was still catching his breath.

 

“Bob, my love,” Dopinder exhaled, lapping at the area around Bob’s mouth with teasing kitten-licks. “Why do you like . . . _that_? When I . . . come on your face?”

 

Bob smiled at the blush in Dopinder’s voice. “I dunno. I mean, I like it when you come, _period_. Anything after that is icing on the cake. But I suppose,” Bob added thoughtfully, as Dopinder licked his nose. “It just makes me feel like we belong to each other. Like you’re marking me and I’m . . . kinda covered in your scent. Because I’m yours and you’re mine.

 

“Also, um . . . I really like the way you taste.” Now Bob was the one blushing. Dopinder chuckled returning his attention to Bob’s mouth. They kissed for a long while, until Bob’s own body had calmed down and Dopinder’s was starting to take interest in the proceedings again.

 

 _This time_ , Dopinder didn’t even have to say anything. Bob had already grabbed the lube and flicked the cap open. In seconds, he was pushing one lube-wet finger between Dopinder’s cheeks, circling his entrance teasingly, till Dopinder was starting to beg in almost slurred Hindi. And when Bob finally pushed into him, slow and gently, Dopinder squeaked, grabbing and clutching at Bob's shoulders, then fistfuls of the periwinkle sheets then Bob's shoulders again.

 

“Please, Bob . . . _more_. . . .”

 

“In a minute, sweetheart . . . we’re almost there. . . .”

 

Dopinder moaned, but nodded, his eyes shut tight again. After a few minutes, when he’d sufficiently relaxed around Bob’s finger, Bob pulled out and introduced a second finger. Dopinder grunted and gritted his teeth, his tight muscles clenching around Bob as if they wanted to keep him forever.

 

“Dopinder, you’re _so_. . . .” Bob didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. So he focused on opening his boyfriend up, carefully scissoring his fingers and brushing Dopinder’s prostate, until Dopinder was more than ready for a third finger. He was hard once again, sticking up like a flagpole, and leaking.

 

Bob resisted the urge to take Dopinder into his mouth once more—though he wanted to bring Dopinder off with his mouth again; wanted to feel those hot spatters of come land on his face and in his mouth; wanted to be _marked_ —and forced himself to focus on preparation.

 

Finally, Dopinder was ready . . . or at least neither of them could wait any longer _for him_ to be ready. Bob spread his boyfriend’s legs wider, held him open, and positioned himself at Dopinder’s swollen, lube-shiny hole.

 

“Yes,” Dopinder chanted repeatedly, wide-eyed and dazed. “Yes-yes-yes . . . _in me_. . . .”

 

Bob held Dopinder’s gaze steadily as he began the slow, tight push _in_.

 

#

 

“Do you think maybe I should . . . join a gym?”

 

Bob held Dopinder tighter in his arms—they were spooning in their bed, watching the changing, violent light of sunset out the window and on their walls, and Dopinder was an eminently  _satisfying_ little-spoon—nuzzling his nape. “I think you should if you _want_ to. But if you’re going to try and look like you _think_ other people or I _want_ you to look. . . .”

 

Dopinder sighed. “I just want to look like the kind of man who could get a sexy boyfriend like _you_.”

 

“Sweetheart . . . you’re sexier than I’ll _ever_ be. You’re _so_ gorgeous and you have no idea _how_ gorgeous you are. I wish I could make you _see_.”

 

“Love is blinding you,” Dopinder said, laughing a little.

 

“I could say the same. So . . . we’re both love-blind. Good for us. We’re happier for it.”

 

“I suppose,” Dopinder agreed, sighing again. But this time he sounded rather contented. “I _am_ happier with you than I’ve ever been in my _life_. Somehow, it feels as if I’m dreaming. If I am . . . I don’t _ever_ want to wake up.”

 

“Me neither.” Bob kissed the sweet-spot behind Dopinder’s ear. “Hey, listen, there’s something I need from my night table. And since you’re closer. . . .”

 

“Certainly, dearheart.” Dopinder had already reached out and opened the drawer. “What am I looking for?”

 

“I think you’ll know it when you find it,” Bob said quietly. And he was right. Dopinder’s body went stiff from shock, if nothing else, as he withdrew the small, black jewelry box from the front of Bob’s mostly empty night table drawer. He held the box and stared at it for three minutes, according to the clock/radio on Bob’s night stand.

 

Then he was turning over in Bob’s arms, eyes wide and shining and confused.

 

“But,” Dopinder said, sniffling as Bob reclaimed his own arms, took the box, and opened it. Dopinder’s eyes widened further as the ring within flashed in the light of the setting sun. “I thought you said . . . it might be six or eight months before you could afford to get a ring!”

 

“Well.” Bob shrugged and blushed. “I was lying. Clearly.”

 

“Clearly,” Dopinder agreed, tears spilling down his face as Bob sat up and removed the [ring](https://www.gemvara.com/jewelry/crown-band-2-5mm-gem/mens-14k-rose-gold-ring-with-diamond/9nftl) from the box. Dopinder sat up, too, grinning, giggling, and holding out his shaking hand. Bob took it and pulled it to his mouth to kiss both knuckles and palm, before squeezing Dopinder’s hand tightly.

 

“I know this isn’t the most romantic moment—but I’ve been sitting on that ring, figuratively speaking, for three weeks, and I just couldn’t think of a right time to ask you to marry me. No time seemed good _enough_. No plans seemed . . . _plan-y_ enough. But lying in bed with you, now, holding you in my arms and watching the sunset in our first place together . . . the place where I hope we’ll have many happy memories, and maybe share that happiness and those memories with a child or two, feeling so content because I have _you_ in my life, I realize that . . . the important part is that we tie our lives together, share them, and _enjoy_ them. Because years from now, when I look back over my life, the _only_ proposal to you I’d ever regret is the one I wasted our lives together _not making_. So. . . .” Bob took a deep breath and looked into Dopinder’s wide, wet dark eyes. “Dopinder Murthy, will you do me the honor of marrying me, and make me the happiest man in the world?”

 

A soft sob escaped Dopinder and he nodded vehemently. “Of course, I will, Bob! But—but—I don’t have a ring for _you_!” And with that, he burst into tears, still giggling, too, as Bob chuckled and slipped the ring on his ring finger.

 

“Well . . . you don’t _have_ to, but if you _want_ to, it’s not like I’m going anywhere, love.” Bob was still chuckling a little as Dopinder’s arms wrapped around his neck, hugging the life out of him. Bob returned that hug just as tight, as Dopinder sobbed and giggled.

 

It was the best hug of his life. And he knew that in the future, there’d be more and better.

 

“I—I don’t even know your ring-size!” Dopinder huffed and sighed. Bob rocked them both to the faint strains of Mozart rising suddenly from their neighbor below.

 

“That makes two of us . . . but we can find out later . . . speaking of, does the ring fit okay?”

 

“ _Perfectly_ ,” Dopinder said with great satisfaction, leaning back to look at Bob. “How did you _know_? How are you so _wonderful_?”

 

“Well, I dunno about _wonderful_ . . . but I asked Sheema your ring-size almost a month ago. And she told me that you’ve always been partial to rose-gold, so. . . .” Bob shrugged a bit anxiously. “I just, um . . . I hope you like it since it’s, y’know . . . _forever_.”

 

“Like it? _Like it_? Bob Lindermann, you are . . . I just. . . .” Dopinder made a frustrated noise and burst into tears again. “Damnit! I _love_ you and I love this _ring_!”

 

“And I love you, too!” Bob kissed his fiancé, gently, lightly. Dopinder moaned and pushed Bob down to the bed, straddling his thighs and pinning his arms, his gaze seemingly glued to his engagement ring.

 

“Really, it’s simply lovely,” Dopinder breathed. Bob smiled.

 

“Not as lovely as its wearer, but as close as I could get on short notice.”

 

Dopinder turned his gaze to Bob’s, grinning suddenly and mischievously. “Guess what _I’ve_ been reading,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing. Bob blinked, his brow furrowing.

 

“Um . . . more Frank Herbert? I think you were on _Dune Messiah_ , last I checked. . . .”

 

“Oh, I finished _that_ ,” Dopinder said dismissively. “No, this is something else, _entirely_.”

 

“Really? Um . . . is this that book on astrology you were interested in last week—”

 

“No, Amazon hasn’t delivered it yet—it’s on backorder . . . c’mon, Bob, guess harder!”

 

“I’m guessing as hard as I can!” Bob laughed, freeing his hands and tackling Dopinder to their bed for kisses and tickles, till they were both laughing too hard to speak clearly and their eyes were tearing up. Bob was holding one of Dopinder’s feet up in the air, one hand and its wriggling fingers poised over the bottom. “Tell me, or—hee!—it’s the fingers, for you, my dear!”

 

“Okay, stop! Stop! I’ll tell you!” Dopinder giggled, finally bobbing up to smack Bob’s hands away from his sensitive sole and kissing him hard on the mouth: an assured way to discombobulate Bob.

 

By the time the kiss ended, Dopinder was straddling Bob again, and pulling Bob’s big hands to his thighs. “The book—or books—I’ve been reading are _The Gay Kama Sutra_ and _The Joy of Gay Sex,_ ” he purred, grinning smugly. Bob’s eyebrows shot up again, then he winced.

 

“I’m that bad, huh?” Sighing Bob shook his head, covering his face with his hands for a few moments. “I mean, I’ve only ever been with women before you—and, like, only three of them, at that—but I thought I was getting at least a _little_ better . . . Jeez-Louise, I’m so _sorry_ , Dopinder—”

 

“ _Yes_ , Bob! I mean— _no_! I mean—” Dopinder shook his own head and muttered to himself in Hindi. “Let me put it another, non-insulting way: I love _everything_ we do together. Everything. So much so that I want to do _more_ with you. Every possible combination, position, technique, whatever, I want to do. _With you_. I want to be _better_ , for you. You . . . are _perfect_ , Bob. _I’m_ the one who was still a virgin at twenty-six! Until you, I’d never even held another man’s _hand_ , let alone made love with one! I had no idea it would be so amazing.” He reached up and cupped Bob’s face in his hand. “And _you_ showed me that, Bob. So I wanted to . . . to pay you back. I wanted to . . . _wow you in the sack_.”

 

Bob blinked. “But . . . you already _do_ , Dopinder.” He smiled, relief so great it released every tension-knot in his body. “Sweetheart, I never knew making love could be so _fantastic and fulfilling_ until you. Hell, I used to wonder what all the fuss was about _until you_. So, yeah, if you want to read a book for some ideas on new stuff we could try . . . kinky stuff that neither of are likely to figure out on our own, then by all means, read away. But if you think I’m _bored_ of you or wishing I was more . . . wowed in the sack . . . please know that is _not_ the case. You _wow_ me, sweetie. You really, _really_ do.”

 

Dopinder grinned and blushed. “Really?”

 

“ _Yes_ , really.” Bob sat up and kissed Dopinder till they were prone on the bed again, grinding against each other and both half-hard.

 

“Mmm, well, if you’re . . . _up_ for trying it, I did find this particularly _interesting_ technique in the _Kama Sutra_. . . .”

 

“Ohhh, I’m listening,” Bob breathed, one hand on Dopinder’s ass, the other palming the back of his neck as he spoke between kisses. “Tell me more, more, _more_.”

 

Dopinder broke the kiss to nuzzle Bob’s nose playfully. “How about I show you, instead?”

 

“An even better idea,” Bob agreed as Dopinder proceeded to straddle him once more and pin his hands to either side of the pillow. He gasped as Dopinder kissed his way south, pausing to nip and nibble on his way, till Bob was the one moaning and groaning his pleas, and arching up into his enthusiastic fiance's sweet, teasing mouth.

 

Between their linked fingers, the warming circle of rose-gold sat like the eternal promise it was. . . .

 

Lunch wasn’t had until breakfast the next morning. But neither man minded in the least.


	3. Life in Other Rooms 3A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s late and there’s a knock at Weasel’s door. Peter’s _way_ late for their six-month anniversary night in, but Weasel’s chill with that. At least until he opens his door to find not his boyfriend, but a G-man in a sharp suit—with an envelope in his pocket and sympathy in his eyes—standing at his doorstep. . . .
> 
> The envelope has Weasel's name on it in Peter's spiky, near-illegible scrawl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU. Part one takes place starting one week after the initial hook-ups of the other pairings at Nate and Wade’s wedding reception. Part two, one month-post reception. Now, in part 3A, things take a distinct turn for Weasel and Peter. TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions of past repeated assaults, sexual assaults, and a miscarriage. MAJOR ANGST. But, hey . . . hopeful ending is hopeful :-)
> 
> And there're still three chapters to go. . . .

**Six Months On: Jack and Peter**

 

 

** **

 

 

 

 There was a knock at Weasel’s door nearing midnight and, yawning, he shuffled to his door in his mismatched jammies, an irritable, but fond welcome on his lips.

 

“’Bout _time_ , baby, my dick’s harder than—oh,” he fell silent when he swung his door open to see a compact, competent-looking gentleman in a dark business suit who was most definitely _not_ Pete Parker. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. Totally thought you were, uh, someone else, buddy.”

 

The man at Weasel’s door—about fiftyish, receding hairline, quiet and coiled in a way Weasel associated with life-long G-men—smiled a little. Winced and grimaced, actually, hands folding in front of him like a schoolboy reciting a lesson.

 

“Of course. Understandable, Mr. Hammer. The hour is, after all, quite late. And I’m given to understand a mutual acquaintance of ours . . . well, makes a second home, here.”

 

Weasel frowned. “Whah?”

 

The G-man’s grimace grew a tad pained. “Mr. Hammer, my name is Phil Coulson, and we . . . have someone in common. Peter Parker.”

 

Weasel went cold all of a sudden, leaning on the door as strength seemed to literally flow out of him. Because _this_ . . . this couldn’t be good.

 

“Peter—did _he_ send you here? Did—is something _wrong_? Did something . . . _happen_ to him?” fell from Weasel’s numb lips as the G-man on his doorstep— _Coulson_ , though Weasel’d bet his life the word _Agent_ fit before it more naturally than _Phil_ —reached into his breast-pocket slowly, as if to reassure Weasel, who honestly wasn’t even thinking about if this G-man was _armed_. Because he undoubtedly _was_ . . . but Weasel really didn’t give a sailing shit about that at the moment.

 

Coulson removed a plain, white business envelope, with Weasel’s name on it in Peter’s spiky, chicken-scratch handwriting. The envelope wasn’t sealed—Weasel didn’t doubt that whomever Coulson worked for or Coulson himself had read the contents of that envelope—and Coulson hesitated, brow furrowing ever so slightly before he held it out to Weasel, his light eyes flickering with grief and regret.

 

Weasel shook his head slowly, backing into his apartment, hand falling away from the still-open door. “No. Fuck that, G-man. And fuck _you_ . . . I don’t want that fuckin’ thing! Get the _Hell_ outta my building before I call the cops, or somethin'!”

 

“Mr. Hammer,” Coulson began reasonably, calmly, still holding out that damn letter. _Weasel_ was still shaking his head _no_ and backing away. Till he hit the arm of the couch and fell backward into the soft brown leather of it. He immediately bounded to his feet, glaring at Coulson, who’d made no attempt to enter the apartment. He simply stood on the welcome mat, watching Weasel patiently, with such terrible sympathy—no, _empathy_ . . . this was a G-man who was no stranger to loss or grief—in his keen eyes, that Weasel was simply struck still and dumb.

 

He didn’t even realize he was fucking _crying_ until Coulson, clearly making an executive decision, stepped into the apartment, but not far, simultaneously reaching into the same breast-pocket with his free hand, for a folded grey pocket-square.

 

“Mr. Hammer,” he tried again, softer, this time, and infinitely kind. Weasel shook his head once.

 

“ _Mr. Hammer’s_ my fuckin’ father and his drunk-fuck brothers. Call me _Jack_ or _Weasel_.” Weasel twitched a jerky shrug and Coulson frowned.

 

“Okay. Jack . . . _Weasel_ ,” he amended, when Weasel flinched at _Jack_ because it was said in a soft, concerned tone that almost _exactly_ mimicked Peter at his tenderest. “I’m an agent with the Avenger’s Initiative and . . . a friend of your partner’s. He and I have worked together quite frequently over the past five or so years. I . . . consider him a good friend.”

 

“Yeah?” Weasel snorted disdainfully, looking Coulson over. “Then how come _I_ never _met_ you, _Agent Coulson_?”

 

Coulson’s smile was kind but sad. “Peter liked to keep his personal and . . . professional lives separate. I’m sure that’s something you already knew about him.”

 

Weasel flinched again. Coulson was right. Weasel had never met _any_ of Peter's work- or Avenger-friends. As it stood, any one of those people he'd never met had probably known Weasel's secretive boyfriend better than _Weasel_ had.

 

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He suddenly wanted a _drink_. “Yeah . . . I know,” he mumbled.

 

Coulson nodded, stepping a bit closer to Weasel and holding out the letter again. “I was Peter’s handler in the field when he was first . . . recruited to the Avengers’ Initiative. We remained, I’m glad to say, friends, even after he was made a full Avenger. And I think that’s why he specified that it be _me_ who . . . delivered this to you in the event that the worst happened. Because he trusted me, after a fashion, and he knew that if anyone could understand the circumstances under which this letter would have to be delivered . . . it’d be me. See, my husband. . . .” Coulson fell silent for a moment, the worry-line between his brows furrowing deeper. “I was injured quite badly, several years back. Before I ever met Peter. And my husband thought— _was allowed to think_ —I was dead for the better part of three years. It was . . . difficult for us both. But especially for Clint, who . . . had lost a lot in his life even before he lost me.”

 

Coulson went silent again, his light-blue eyes clouded with unpleasant memories for almost a minute before his shoulders sagged and he sighed. “Sorry. I’m digressing. Rambling. Putting off an unpleasant duty I’d hoped would never fall to me.” He held out the letter once more, with a slight sense of urgency, though he outwardly remained almost impassively calm, now. “Please accept my . . . my sincerest and _deepest_ condolences, Mr.— _Weasel_. For your loss.”

 

“No. I'm not acceptin' _anything_ from _you_ , Government Issue,” Weasel said just as calmly, holding up his hands and backing around the couch, toward—he didn’t even know where. Maybe back to bed. He’d chill and if he fell asleep, Peter’d understand when he finally got there. Would either slide gently into bed and cuddle up with Weasel till they were both sleeping, or wake Weasel up with a prick-melting blowjob, as he so often did, the horny little bastard.

 

Whichever, it’d be _totally_ copacetic.

 

Like _always_.

 

“Peter Parker was a great man,” Coulson was saying heavily, his mouth turned down and surrounded by frown-lines. “And, more importantly, a _good_ man. There were few better. And . . . he loved _you_ very much.” He looked down, as if bowing his head in prayer. “Very, very much. You made him happier than I’d ever seen him.”

 

“Don’t.” Weasel glared when Coulson looked up, obviously startled. “Don’t you fuckin’ use _past tense_ , man! Pete’s not—he’s—” shaking his head, Weasel jumped a little when he hit a wall . . . then found himself sliding down it as he shook, and gasped for air and moaned. It was getting alarmingly hard to breathe. “Pete’s . . . he’s real late, tonight—he was supposed to come over after he finished grading some bio-chem papers for Professor Durkheim—but he’s not _patrolling_ and _not_ doing Avenger-shit tonight. _Not tonight_ , it’s. . . .” _our six-month anniversary_ , Weasel intended to finish. But he could barely breathe, let alone speak, at this point.

 

He instinctively closed his eyes and, with a whimper, put his head between his knees. And he stayed like that till a gentle hand settled on his shoulder. Weasel glanced up to see Coulson kneeling before him like a suitor about to propose marriage. The envelope and pocket-square were still in his right hand.

 

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” he said with that terrible empathy and gentility, and Weasel shuddered deeply, moaning and letting out a desperate sob. Coulson winced, but didn’t hesitate to pull Weasel into his arms, his own face devastated and broken, despite its almost total lack of expression. _It's the eyes_ , Weasel assumed. Coulson had very intense, emotive, brilliant eyes. Like Peter. Different, but the same in some vital way.

 

“He’s comin’ over _tonight_ , man,” Weasel choked out after eternal minutes, or maybe hours of sobbing had passed—after the pain of what he was trying not to feel branded itself into his marrow-bones and settled in to wait him out. He looked up at Coulson pleadingly; those pale, striking eyes were reddened, shining, but not wet. “We’re gonna . . . we’re gonna order a pizza, get baked, and celebrate! _Six months_ , man! I never had _anything_ this _good_ last for so long!”

 

Coulson nodded, his strong, but unassuming arms tightening almost protectively around Weasel. “I know, Jack. And I’m . . . sorry. The last time I saw Peter, he . . . mentioned that your anniversary was approaching, and that you two were going to celebrate with a quiet night in. _Netflix and chill_ , was the term he used, rather fondly. He was very excited. Animated.” A small smile quirked Coulson’s thin, but mobile mouth. Weasel snorted and laughed even as he continued to sob.

 

“Yeah,” he said shakily. “We, uh . . . we got a lotta practice at that. But ya don’t mess with a classic, amirite?”

 

“Right on,” Coulson replied quietly, straight-faced and pulling Weasel to his feet easily— _another mutant?_ Weasel wondered absently, as he staggered a little, and Coulson bore up under him, also easily—then led Weasel to his couch. Once there, he sat them both down, hand unerringly reaching for the remote control under Peter's favorite cushion, to put the massive flatscreen on mute. Weasel hadn’t even noticed it was still on. Netflix was starting another episode of _GBBO_. . . .

 

Peter would be so _pissed_ that Weasel was starting a new episode without him.

 

“Please,” Weasel begged, when Coulson offered the pocket-square again. Weasel took it and wiped his tear-y, snot-y face, shuddering at the faint scent of Coulson’s aftershave on it. The scent was light, but masculine and unique. Peter probably would’ve liked it a lot. “He _can’t_ be . . . I mean, he just _can’t_ , Agent Coulson! That's all there is to it! I just saw him _two days_ ago! We talked on the phone last night till _four a.m.!_ He sent me a text this morning and—” flushing, Weasel’s mouth closed. The text had _actually_ been a dick-pic. Well, several dick-picks and, finally, a full torso- and head-shot of Weasel’s naughty, _dirty_ boy, the fingers of his right hand still up his ass, legs still spread, spatters of his own come covering his stomach, chest, and face—because Pete was such a fucking overachieving _tease_ and _show-off_ , and always came in fucking liters, instead of ounces, as mere mortals did—tongue caught in the midst of swiping his bitten-looking, swollen lower lip. . . .

 

And Weasel had jerked off _three times_ to those pictures before _noon_. Until now, this had been a really _awesome_ day.

 

Weasel shook his head again. “He was _fine_ this morning. _Fine_.” He met Coulson’s now stoic gaze. The other man made a face Weasel couldn’t interpret before speaking.

 

“Yes. But he nonetheless called and left a message at the Avengers’ Tower—said he was feeling poorly and wouldn’t be able to come in today for his internship with Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner . . . unfortunately that call may have been made under duress, because when Dr. Banner received that message he . . . grew suspicious and thought to have the call . . . well, let’s just say, _traced_.”

 

“And?” Weasel demanded hopefully. Coulson winced again.

 

“And . . . Peter’s phone was fished out of the East River shortly thereafter,” Coulson sighed, shaking his head.

 

“Was . . . was _Pete_ —” _was Pete in the river, too?_

 

“No,” Coulson murmured, looking down, his face struggling between several expressions, all equally unreadable. “No body has yet been recovered.”

 

“Then . . . then he could still be _alive_!” Weasel exclaimed, eyes widening as the despair that’d threatened to swallow him whole shattered instantly, and his heart . . . his heart grew fucking _wings_ , like a goddamned _Red Bull_ commercial.

 

Coulson’s mouth was working soundlessly, his eyes still downcast. “Jack . . . I wish that were likely to be the case, but—”

 

“That’s how it _works_ , man! Motherfuckin’ _body_ , or it didn’t _happen_!” Weasel jumped up, dropping the pocket-square and pacing to the small bar in the southeastern corner of the living room. He grabbed a bottle of _Jack Daniels’_ , which was mostly full, since Weasel rarely drank and Peter only liked micro-brews and what Weasel always called: “that faggy, _girly_ shit that _Wade_ also likes,” (which included any number of pastel-colored umbrella-drinks more at home on _Sex and the City_ than in Weasel’s apartment).

 

Cracking open the _Jack_ —Black Label, because that’s how Hammers had rolled since the dawn of fucking _time_ —Weasel took a long swig, relishing the burn instead of ignoring it. Coulson was watching him with mild alarm in the set of his mouth and the watchfulness of his pale, intent eyes.

 

“Pete’s alive,” Weasel insisted—rasping and coughing—as if Coulson had gainsaid him aloud.

 

Coulson shook his head. “Listen, Jack . . . I understand what you’re feeling, to an extent. But you don’t know what _I_ know—”

 

“Then _enlighten_ me, Agent Coulson!” Weasel snapped. The agent shook his head again, seeming sadder than ever behind his expressionless facade.

 

“I’ve already told you too much that’s classified . . . but as Peter’s partner you deserve as much as I can risk telling you. Which isn’t much _more_ , unfortunately.” Coulson’s shoulders sagged once again. “But believe me . . . we know who . . . _what_ took Peter, and . . . it wouldn’t have hesitated to . . . well. Let’s just say that there are a lot of bad things that had it in for the Amazing Spider-Man and _this_ thing . . . was simply another. And it got lucky.”

 

“Nope. You’re _wrong_ , Coulson,” Weasel croaked, raw and chuffing, still insistent, still swigging bourbon like water, never mind that it’d stolen his voice away. Never mind that his trachea seemed to be on fire and his stomach was quite probably about to send the alcohol he’d consumed _way_ too quickly, right back up. “I _know_ you guys have toys and tech that make mine look like _Tonka_ trucks, but you’re _wrong_. _Pete’s_ _still alive_. He’s _out there_ and . . . and, yeah. Maybe he’s in some bad-dude’s hands, hurt and scared and . . . _God_ . .. but he’s _alive_. And he’s waiting for you guys to _find_ him. To _save_ him. And you’re just gonna _give up on him_? Just like that?”

 

“It’s not that simple, Jack. There are factors that you don’t know about—irrefutable _evidence_ that Peter’s been . . . that he’s. . . .” Coulson bit his lip and his entire face trembled, as if maybe he was going to break-down and _have an actual facial expression_ , after all. . . .

 

Then Coulson's face firmed up. Became almost stony in its pleasant, impersonal neutrality. But his light eyes glittered with grief that seemed to sock Weasel in the gut.

 

_Pete’s dead,_ Weasel thought suddenly, almost numbly, that thought sinking down low, till it lodged first in his throat, then in his heart, where it slowly began to turn into belief. _My Peter, my baby, is_ gone _. . . someone—some_ thing _—took him from me today and now . . . I’m all alone again. I’ll never see him anymore. Won’t wake up because he’s snoring too loud ever again. Won’t have to put up with his terrible attempts at a full English Breakfast. Won’t have to listen to his shitty hipster music or wait for my eyes to glaze over when he rants about bio-chemistry and robotics. Won’t have to . . . to. . . ._

 

As he struggled to complete that thought around the yawning pit that was opening in his fracturing psyche, another sensation began in Weasel’s _gut_ : wrenching, burning, _nauseating_.

 

“Oh, _fuck_!” Dropping the bottle of Jack on the floor, where it shattered, he staggered-ran for his bathroom as Coulson stood up worriedly, mouth open.

 

The last thing Weasel heard before he was retching his guts into his bathroom sink—and on the floor below—was a loud, unfamiliar ringtone approaching the bathroom. It sounded like AC/DC, obnoxious and stupid. Not _at all_ the sort of ringtone someone like _Agent Phil_ _Coulson_ would have had and certainly _not_ a ringtone _Weasel_ had.

 

Then Weasel was bringing up everything he’d ever eaten or _thought_ about eating, and for a while, anyway, he was spared the utter despair of having lost the man who was, he realized, not only his complement, but his completion.

 

And when he’d brought everything up and could retch no more—when his aching ribs finally had had _enough_ , as had his empty, turned-inside-out stomach—Weasel grunted and rinsed his mouth out tokenly with a handful of lukewarm water before staggering to his large, empty, forever-after _lonely_ bed. Once there, eyes and throat sore, head pounding, he flopped face-down in his California King—best purchase of his adult life!—and prayed for a darkness as void and desolate as his decimated heart.

 

As that darkness finally came to claim him, the last thing he felt was a gentle hand on his hair, that made him think: _Pete_? Because that was exactly what Peter had done that time Weasel had the flu so bad, they eventually went to the E.R. Before and after that hospital visit, Peter had put his cool, gentle hand, with its tenderness and calluses, on Weasel’s forehead and hair, eventually kissing him so sweetly and caringly. At every kiss and caress, Weasel had evinced some weak form of surprise.

 

Of course, _I’m gonna stay and take care of you, Jack Hammer. . . ._ Peter had always said, in response to Weasel’s unasked questions, smiling so kind and sure, it took what little breath Weasel had left. _Don’t you know, by now, that I_ love you _, you jackass?_

 

“Oh, God, _Pete_ ,” Weasel blubbered, half-conscious but rolling closer to that hand. It settled more firmly on his hair even as Peter’s side of the bed— _their bed_ , as it’d been since almost the beginning, if Weasel was being honest—dipped under the weight of another, tentative body. “Please don’ leave me, baby. . . ?”

 

That hand stroked and stroked, and a weary, hoarse sigh sounded in the deep dark and silence of the bedroom. “Go to sleep, Jack,” a kind, but _wrong_ voice suggested. “And when you wake up . . . when you wake up, maybe it’ll be a little better.”

 

_No. It’ll never be better again,_ Weasel knew. And then, knew nothing _more_ for the next two and a half days.

 

#

 

When next his eyes opened, aching and sticky— _gross_ , like the rest of him felt—Weasel didn’t even try to move. He felt weak, empty, and wrecked.

 

“Pete?” he asked—croaked out to the other presence in the room. The one that had brought the awful news, then stayed to watch over him like some awful, carrion-bird- _cum_ -guardian-angel.

 

A soft, now familiar sigh made Weasel turn his head slightly. On his night table, the digital clock told him both the time and date—Monday, late morning, despite the tightly-drawn drapes and softly-glowing lamp—and on top of it sat an envelope with Peter’s hand-writing on it and Weasel’s glasses on top of _that_ , miraculously unbroken.

 

But that _letter_. . . .

 

Really . . . wasn’t that all the answer to Weasel’s question, right there?

 

Heart burnt-out and exhausted despite days of sleep, Weasel fumbled automatically for his glasses, then waited for his eyes to focus blearily on Coulson, who sat in a chair from the living room, near the door to the bedroom. He looked almost relaxed, in his rolled-up shirt sleeves and with shoeless feet in argyle socks. His shoes were tucked neatly under the chair and he looked like _Hell_ , dark-grey circles around his pale, still-keen eyes, his cheeks hollow. But he seemed otherwise present and alert.

 

“We’re . . . we’re still trying, Jack. Trying to find . . . traces. Trails. _Hope_. But . . . it doesn’t look so good,” Coulson said quietly, straightening out of a very slight slouch with another wince. “Trail goes dead in Trenton, and it’s amazing we were able to follow it _that_ far. But . . . there’s where it goes cold, and has been getting colder for the past twenty-seven hours, despite our best efforts.”

 

“Still no body,” Weasel said stubbornly, his voice a shambles of creaking and hoarse exhalations.

 

“No. Still no body,” Coulson allowed, grimace-smiling a bit. “What we’re . . . pretty sure got the drop on Peter has an M.O. of maximum carnage and leaving . . . calling cards. The fact that we haven’t found _either,_ anywhere in the Tri-State area is . . . possibly a good sign.”

 

Weasel turned his head and closed his eyes again. “Or . . . it could mean that this thing’s gotten smarter.”

 

“Could mean that, too,” Coulson agreed calmly, a shrug in his voice. “But that’s unlikely. This thing is all about rage and destruction. It could no more stop that pattern once it started than it could become a flower-child. That’s the one bright light we’ve been able to shed on this situation: the creature’s _taken_ Peter, but hasn’t necessarily done anything to him, yet, other than stash him somewhere. It may only be a matter of time and circumstance, but for the moment . . . the fact that there hasn’t been widespread bloodshed nearby may mean that Peter’s still alive. For the moment,” he added again, even as Weasel’s traitor heart began to race wildly.

 

“So,” he started to say, then coughed a little. He felt like he had the flu, again, like he’d got two months ago. When Peter had said he loved Weasel for the first time in words, but certainly not in _deed_.

 

His hand had been so tender and gentle. . . .

 

So _loving_.

 

“What else can you tell me about . . . what’s got Pete?” Weasel whispered around a throat that ached with tears and regrets.

 

Coulson didn’t reply for almost five minutes, during which a man in black leather TAC gear and boots seemed to just appear in the room. He was about Peter’s height—average—and just as lithe-looking, though a bit bulkier than Peter. He had spiky, dark-blond hair, and was tan and weathered about a boyish, friendly face, with startling sky-blue eyes and Coulson’s air of quiet competence about him. But he carried himself with the same almost boneless, confident strut Peter did: like an acrobat approaching the trapeze, or something, for the thousandth time.

 

As Weasel gaped, the man nodded at him in an amicable, if distracted manner, then turned to Coulson and began communicating in fast ASL. Coulson replied in the same fashion, looking up at the man as if he was the sun rising, his smile soft and admiring— _adoring_ —in a way Weasel felt like another punch in the gut.

 

Too fascinated by this temporary distraction to give the pair their privacy—not that he understood what they were saying, anyway, though Coulson’s pale eyes spoke _volumes_ as he gazed at this man and the other man’s brief, gentle caress of Coulson’s cheek was also telling—Weasel watched as their graceful gestures slowed, then Coulson finally smiled. _Beamed_. With, like, _teeth_ , and everything.

 

_Huh, I guess he_ does _look like a ‘Phil,’ after all,_ Weasel thought as the newcomer leaned down to drop a quick kiss on Coulson’s forehead.

 

“You’ll see, sweetheart,” he said in a soft, deep, unused burr of a voice, before he glanced at Weasel again, saluted, and strode silently, economically, _gracefully_ out of the room. Almost exactly the way Peter would have. And Coulson watched him go the way _Weasel_ would have watched _Peter_ , his chest filling like a sail in a strong wind.

 

(Weasel had thought his heart couldn’t hurt any more. He’d been _so_ fucking _wrong_.)

 

Then he turned back to Weasel, his face settled back into that pleasant, patient neutrality, though his eyes were measuring.

 

“That was Clint Barton. My husband.”

 

“Kinda figured.” Weasel shrugged, looking away again to gaze up at his ceiling. “Must be cool that you get to work with him so closely.”

 

“It is, sometimes. But he can be a real pain in the ass, sometimes, too. Headstrong, stubborn, and willful . . . but mostly just on days that end in ‘Y.’ Please don’t tell him I said that, though,” Coulson added nonchalantly, and Weasel snorted.

 

“Your secret’s safe with me, Phil.”

 

There was a brief pause, during which Weasel could feel Coulson weighing him once more.

 

“The creature’s called _Venom_ ,” he said when he spoke again, his voice dead-serious. When Weasel slowly looked over at him once more, about to blurt: _What the fuck?_ Coulson’s eyes were intense and somehow forbidding. So Weasel didn’t speak, just nodded to show he was listening.

 

Coulson leaned forward slightly and went on. He didn’t speak for long . . . kept his explanation—which was clearly classified and clearly full of soon-to-be-redacted info—short and sweet.

 

_Though “sweet” was,_ Weasel thought horrified, less than ten minutes later, when the bare, factual tale had been as told as it would get, _not the correct word to use at all to describe anything connected to Venom or its host._

 

No, nothing at all sweet attended either symbiote or host. Nothing about either of them was redeemable or remotely worth rescuing/preserving.

 

Except _Peter_ , of course. And Weasel’s boyfriend’s connection to the creature and host were . . . startling. And heart-breaking, even to a man whose heart had already been shattered.

 

_Unimportant_ , Peter had told Weasel all those months ago when he’d demanded a name, his mind on drones and vengeance at hearing that Peter’s ex had tried to kill him more than once. But Peter’s eyes had been hard and closed-off in a way Weasel had never seen before or since, as he, in retrospect, glossed over and misdirected his boyfriend’s concern away from what’d been a significant time in his eventful life. And Weasel, though he’d occasionally wondered, hadn’t dared ask again. Because he was frightened of driving Peter away and even _more_ frightened of hurting, or even _breaking_ the surprisingly fragile superhero who, for some reason, trusted him to do the exact _opposite_.

 

Now, Weasel’s mind locked onto the only question he had that seemed clear in his overwhelmed mind and stricken heart. “Why?” he asked, wiping his wet cheeks. “Why now? Why _again_?”

 

Coulson twitched, and looked down at his shoeless feet and patterned socks. “We think . . . _we think_ because of the remnant of the bond _Peter_ and Venom once shared as host and symbiote, the creature, which may have lain dormant in Thompson for several years since its last . . . rampage . . . became aware of its former host and former . . . _mate_ . . . well, mating and bonding with another. With _you_ , Jack. And aware, we’re pretty sure, of the pregnancy, as well. It was, of course, not happy about either occurrence.”

 

_What the_ fuck _does he mean by_ mating _and_ bonding _? Does he mean_ fucking _? Dating? Serial-monogamy? Did . . . did Peter_ know _I was looking at fucking engagement rings? And if he knew, did Venom somehow pick up on it? Is that why Venom took him? God, did Pete maybe_ die _thinking I couldn’t decide whether or not I loved him enough to actually_ propose _, when all it was, was my pathetic ass not being able to find a ring that was_ good enough _to grace his finger for the rest of our lives?_ Weasel covered his face with shaking hands and shook his head on his pillow, as his heart disintegrated even more. It was practically a fine powder, at this point. “What, uh . . . what pregnancy? Did Venom grab some poor chick, too, when he grabbed Pete?” he asked distractedly, absently wiping his aching eyes as his brain once more latched onto the thing that stood the most chance of taking his mind off his own heartbreak and the prospect of eternal loneliness that now faced him.

 

Coulson blinked. Then blinked again. Then covered _his_ face with his hand, laughing wearily as he muttered: “Jesus, Parker, you take being like your patron animal to new and dizzying heights, don’t you? Always with a web full of  _secrets_. . . .”

 

Weasel’s eyebrows shot up. He sensed some _extreme_ pot-kettle issues and irony in that statement.

 

Then Coulson was looking up at him as if he was trying to figure out how to tell Weasel something important, something that might make things a _million_ times better. . . .

 

Or a million times _worse_.

 

“There’s . . . really no easy or believable way to break this to you, Jack,” Coulson began, and _this time_ , when he spoke, he said approximately two hundred-fifty halting, quiet words which changed Weasel’s life forever. Made everything a _million_ times worse. . . .

 

Or, just maybe, a million times _better_.

 

Either way, it put new steel and grim determination into Weasel’s spine. Saw him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed in preparation to _stand_ , even though the room was spinning lazily and his head was suddenly pounding around a white-noise headache.

 

“What can I do?” he asked Coulson through gritted teeth, angry and sad and scared and hopeful . . . but, most of all, calmer than he’d _ever_ been in his entire, stoned life. (Not _for-real_ calm, but sitting at the eye of a storm that would either hit or dissipate depending on whether his mate . . . and _their child_ . . . were safely retrieved.) “What can I do to help?”

 

Coulson’s sudden smile was crooked, but approving.

 

“I've prepared an itemized list,” he said, slipping his feet into his shiny shoes and standing up.

 

#

 

Less than eighteen hours later, Weasel found himself in a quinjet during a bleary, overcast witching hour, on the way to King-of-Prussia, Pennsylvania, with people he’d only ever read about. And a few he certainly _hadn’t_.

 

Flying the quinjet was Coulson’s husband, Clint, otherwise known as the Avenger _Hawkeye_. He flew smoothly, like it was second nature, his head bobbing to a rhythm only he could hear, hands occasionally darting over switches and controls. At his side was a shapely redhead with pixie-cut hair, a TAC outfit similar to Clint’s and a headset through which she kept up communication with Friday, Tony Stark’s AI, back at Avenger HQ.

 

After the events surrounding the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Triskelion several years back, all the Senate hearings and hoop-la, even Weasel recognized _Natasha Romanov_ , a.k.a. Black Widow, before Coulson introduced them.

 

In the middle of the quinjet, Weasel sat buckled in next to Coulson, who was wearing a slightly darker GI-suit than he’d been wearing the day before and sunglasses, even though false dawn had barely touched the sky. He looked rather upbeat, but then, _of course_ he did. (He was, it’d become disgustingly clear in the past almost day, a quiet, but dutiful optimist.)

 

Also along for the ride were the infamous Dr. Bruce Banner and one Dr. Helen Cho, conferring quietly over a virtual monitor on which were the most recent biometric scans of Venom and its host, taken with Friday’s long-range scanners almost five years ago. Cho seemed as quietly optimistic as Coulson did, but Banner seemed worried, blinking a lot and frowning, the right side of his mouth twitching and turned markedly down. He was wearing baggy dark sweats with the Avengers' logo; they swam on his wiry frame.

 

_In case_ , Coulson had murmured softly to Weasel, _there's a Code Green._

 

“And with Venom . . . that’s a distinct possibility. Be prepared, Jack,” he’d added. “Dr. Banner’s . . . _transformation_ can be . . . shocking.”

 

There were several of Coulson’s agent-underlings along for the ride, as well, armed, silent, and grim. Weasel didn’t know whether he was comforted or alarmed by their deadly-ready presence.

 

And, last but not least, flying alongside the quinjet, was Tony Stark: Mr. Iron-Man, himself. Weasel had met the big—figuratively speaking—man earlier. He’d been sarcastic and distracted, clearly worried about Peter, who’d always spoken of Stark, as well as Dr. Banner and Dr. Cho, as mentors and trusted friends. Without going into any real detail, of course.

 

“So. You’re the reason my favorite intern’s been walking bow-legged and smiling like a dumbass for the past six months,” Stark had said, eyeing Weasel measuringly and looking markedly _up_ to do so. He hadn’t seemed especially impressed by what he saw. Weasel had flushed and scowled down at the pint-sized philanthropist and hero, and Dr. Banner had hurried over to put a hand on Stark’s shoulder.

 

“What my colleague means is, it’s nice to finally meet you, Jack. Peter has nothing but wonderful things to say about you,” Banner had translated, smiling his somewhat pained, but hopeful smile. Next to him, Stark had rolled his eyes, but slung his arm around Banner’s waist, pulling him closer possessively, as if he was staking his claim. Weasel had rolled his eyes. _Short guys_ , he'd thought with wry disdain.

 

“Yeah, well, he’s told me all of _nothing_ about _you_ guys. _Any_ of you. Except that he knows you,” he’d amended, gaze darting back and forth from Banner, to Stark, and back. Stark smirked.

 

“Confidentiality clauses are a beautiful thing, when worded just right,” he'd said in a way that set Weasel immediately on edge. More so than he had _already_ been, that was.

 

“You’re always so diplomatic, dear,” Banner had mused dryly, almost under his breath, as he’d shoved Stark’s arm off him. Stark had quirked a charming, almost daffy smile, and leaned in to kiss Banner’s temple, without taking his eyes off Weasel.

 

“Ain’t I, though? Anyway. Word on the grapevine, wannabe, is that _you’ve_ got some ideas and tech you think can help get Parker and co. back to us. And put the smack-down on Venom for good.” It wasn’t a question, but a challenge. A tentative hope.

 

It was also Stark being an _asshole_ , exactly as advertised.

 

“Maybe I do.” Weasel’s eyes had narrowed and Stark had snorted.

 

“Gonna have to do better than _maybe_ , Hammer. We don’t deal in _maybes_.” Now, Stark’s voice was on edge, too.

 

“Do or do not, there is no try?” Weasel’s eyebrows had shot up and Stark’s had furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing, too. But before he could say anything else, Coulson and another agent—one who’d introduced herself to Weasel as Maria Hill, competent in a slightly different, more martial way than Coulson was—had come over to report a sighting somewhere in _Pennsylvania_ , of all places. . . .

 

“Hey.”

 

Weasel looked up, now, from his memories, and his absent contemplation of the quinjet’s charcoal-colored floor. Coulson was watching him, still smiling a little. Really, the man’s optimism was _intolerable_. Like a full-body rash.

 

It nonetheless gave Weasel heart and hope.

 

“My mom always used to say: ‘Hay is for horses,’” he mumbled, aiming his own jagged smile back at Coulson, who snorted silently.

 

“So’d mine.” Coulson tilted his head and put his hand on Weasel’s shoulder. “When we get there, hang back with Drs. Cho and Banner, and Agent Dixon, and let my team and the Avengers do their jobs. We’ll get Peter out of there safe and sound—thanks in large part to your gadgets by the way—in fifty minutes. Less, if Venom’s not feeling too feisty.”

 

“He’ll put up a fight for Peter. Who wouldn’t?” Weasel said worriedly. Coulson squeezed his shoulder.

 

“Fighting and _winning_ are two separate entities, Jack.”

 

“Yeah, Phil . . . they are.”

 

Coulson’s smile slipped a little, and he sighed. “It’ll be alright. By all means, we shouldn’t have even gotten this far—shouldn’t have found Venom and Thompson at all. If there’s one thing that they’re good at, it’s going to ground and evading capture. But thanks to you . . . thanks to you—and Banner and Cho and Stark—we’ve got a bead on them. They’re not getting away again, this time. You get me?” When Weasel nodded listlessly, Coulson squeezed his shoulder once more, harder. “They’ll _never_ get a chance to hurt Peter again. This time, we’ll put ‘em _both_ in the dirt _for keeps_.”

 

Weasel shivered and nodded again. “But what if . . . what if this thing gets backed into a corner and decides to scorch the earth it's standing on, huh? I mean, it did that once before, according to you—several times, actually. Tried to _kill_ Peter—to _end_ him, rather than lose him. And instead, _Peter_ lost the _child he was carrying_ , and that nearly _destroyed_ him. So, what if Venom once again decides: ‘Fuck it,’ and tries to kill Peter rather than let you guys save him? What if—”

 

“One click away. Landing in thirty,” Clint’s quiet, unused voice drifted out of the comm-speaker overhead, and everyone looked up, then at each other. Coulson gave Weasel’s shoulder a third squeeze, this one gentle.

 

“Peter’s a lot stronger and more focused, these days, thanks in part to you. He'll do what it takes to survive and come back to you. Venom’s only grown weaker and more divorced from reality since it melded with Thompson. They're weak and they lack conviction. They always have. Of that I can assure you, Jack. So things may get a touch messy in there, but we’ll bring Peter—bring them _all_ —back to you alive and well.”

 

Coulson’s hand fell away and silence reigned in the quinjet till they touched down seventeen seconds later, in a small, garbage-strewn glade not far outside of town.

 

“Time to rock and roll, bitches,” Iron-Man’s voice was tight and terse over the comm, along with the faint strains of the same AC/DC song from Coulson’s phone, three days ago. “Let’s not fuck it up.”

 

#

 

Forty minutes later, Dr. Cho was still staring at her virtual monitor, tapping away quickly on a virtual keyboard—the characters were in Korean, so Weasel couldn’t tell what she was typing, or if it was about the mission or Peter—and next to Weasel sat Banner, who was twiddling his thumbs nervously and tapping his foot as he stared intently at the floor.

 

(Now that Weasel knew what a _Code Green_ meant for the unassuming doctor, Weasel couldn’t blame him for his restlessness. He, too, hoped the _Other Guy_ wasn’t needed.)

 

“I couldn’t decide on a ring, y’know?” Weasel muttered suddenly, and Banner stopped fidgeting, the right side of his mouth ticking minutely as he focused on Weasel, who shrugged jerkily. “I mean, I’ve been looking at ring after ring after motherfucking _ring_ for almost two months, but none of them were good enough. Not for him. Not for _Pete_.”

 

Banner smiled his weary, uncertain smile, and held up his hand. On his ring finger was a chunky, silver-toned band— _Vibranium_?—set with a small, almost opalescent, glowing stone. Kind of like the one in Iron-Man’s original suit. How Weasel hadn’t noticed the stone before was beyond him. Though he supposed he’d been rather . . . distracted, of late.

 

“If you can’t _find_ the perfect engagement ring, _make it,_ ” Banner said simply. Weasel grinned.

 

“Well, not all of us are billionaire-superheroes with more resources than any ten large banana-republics at our fingertips, bro.”

 

“You don’t _have_ to be—not that I haven’t seen what your Swiss bank accounts and the account in the Cayman Islands look like, Jack.” Banner’s left eyebrow shot up and Weasel snorted. “But you and I both know that even if you gave Peter an old, chewed-over cigar band, he’d wear it proudly, and for the rest of ever. Because it’s from _you_.”

 

Weasel grimaced, his heart thudding like he’d been running. Hope was a bitch. An even bigger bitch than _love_. “Yeah. I know. Maybe I _always_ knew. I just wish . . . anyway. You and Stark, huh? That’s gotta be . . . interesting.”

 

“Eh.” Banner shrugged, his smile turning fond and just a bit goofy as he gazed at his engagement ring for long moments before meeting Weasel's eyes again. “It’s certainly not _boring_ , I’ll tell you _that_. Tony’s . . . a handful. A rich, brilliant, impulsive, spoiled child-man. But . . . I love him to death. He makes me feel . . . he makes me _feel_ , y’know?”

 

“I do,” Weasel admitted, looking Banner in the eye and thinking about Peter, and how lonely and _grey_ life had been before him . . . how lonely and grey it’d been in the past three days, and might _still_ be, forever-after. “I know exactly how _that_ song goes.”

 

Banner’s mouth firmed into a thin line. “We’ll get him back to you, Jack. Even if this turns into a Code Green, my first priority will be getting Peter back to safety. Back to _you_. Okay?”

 

“Thanks,” Weasel said in a small voice, and Banner smiled again, hard and edgy, something angry . . . almost _enraged_ flaring in his hazel-green eyes.

 

“Not a problem. It’s _Peter_ , after all.” Banner shrugged, now, eyes narrowing and going grimmer than his low, scholarly voice. “Of course, once Peter’s _safe_ , I am _personally_ gonna _stomp_ the ever-loving _fuck_ out of Venom before I plant him like a goddamn geranium.”

 

Weasel’s eyes widened and for a few moments, he could swear Banner flushed . . . _green_. . . .

 

Then Weasel blinked, and Banner was just his usual, olive-toned self, staring at the floor of the quinjet once more and looking mildly distracted.

 

And though Weasel _really_ hoped Banner’s so-called _Other Guy_ wasn’t necessary, he also felt a _lot_ better about their chances of taking down Venom for good.

 

_Hang on_ , _Pete_ , he thought desperately, that stone-bitch hope burning him up from the inside, out. _Just hang on a little longer_. . . .

 

#

 

In the end, the _Other Guy wasn’t_ needed.

 

After a series of loud explosions, from a click south, lit up the dawn—causing Banner and Weasel to look at each other—the world went silent . . . then cheers went up over the comm. Across from them, Dr. Cho’s brows lifted and she smiled, but she didn’t even slow her typing. Sitting in the pilot’s seat, Agent Dixon merely monitored everyone’s twenty—lingering, it seemed whenever Weasel's pacing had taken him closer to her, quite often on Black Widow's frequency—while petting her semi-automatic pistol, which was on the dash near her hand.

 

Then, three minutes and forty-one breathless seconds later, Iron-Man’s voice came over the comm, fucking _Freebird_ playing in the background. Weasel couldn’t help rolling his eyes even as he waited on tenterhooks to hear the news.

 

Dixon's hand slowed to a rest on her pistol, her midnight-dark profile and light, girlish voice as impassive as any of Coulson's agents. "We hear you loud and clear, Iron-Man. What's your twenty?"

 

“Oh, coming up from south of you, ETA about seven seconds, Dixy. And, you'll be glad to know, last I saw of your girl, she was blowing large chunks off Venom from a relatively safe distance. Go, Nat! Anyway, target acquired, yadda-yadda, and Romanov, Barton, Coulson, and the team’re still handling Venom with _extreme_ prejudice, as we speak. At your back door, now. Open up and give us a warm welcome. Helen, Bruce, stand-by to receive one injured.”

 

“Roger that, Iron-Man,” Dixon replied calmly, her wide, coat-hanger shoulders relaxing ever so slightly. Helen dismissed her virtual screen and keyboard, and stood up. She too, was armed with a semi-automatic pistol, though it was still in a right-side shoulder-holster. Bruce—who never carried weapons since he _really_ didn’t need them—also stood, Weasel following him toward the back of the quinjet as the bay opened and the gangplank slid out. Weasel’s heart jumped up into his throat as Iron-Man flew in seconds later carrying a limp, unconscious, bruised  _Peter_ in his iron arms. . . .

 

Or Peter’s . . . _body_. . . .

 

But then Iron-Man landed gently and that body—wearing the torn, ragged remains of his spidey-suit under the torn, ragged remains of filthy jeans and a filthier Henley, but not the mask—twitched, and Peter moaned weakly, one hand lifting oh, so slowly to settle on his abdomen. His eyelids fluttered a few times before he sagged in Iron-Man’s arms once more, his hand falling limply away, to dangle as he was laid on one of the three fold-down stretchers with which the quinjet was equipped.

 

Bruce clapped Weasel’s shoulder, grinning crookedly, and pushing Weasel toward the stretcher and his unconscious boyfriend. Weasel stumbled forward without any input from his shorted-out brain. Iron-Man stepped back a few paces, his face-plate sliding up to reveal a worried, pained expression. Weasel didn’t even really notice. He only had eyes for Peter.

 

_“You’re going to be a father, Jack,” Coulson had said after explaining Peter’s connection to Venom and its host, when Weasel had asked:_ What pregnancy? _all innocent and unknowing. And as Weasel’s eyes widened, Coulson’s gaze softened and that small smile made a comeback. “Peter’s . . . Peter’s_ pregnant _. It’s a, uh . . . a condition that has to do with his mutation—Drs. Cho or Banner could explain it to you better and will, whenever you’re ready—but, yes, he_ is _able to conceive and bear children. He is, in fact, pregnant with_ your child _. We’d . . . well, Cho and Banner had assumed Peter had told you since he was approaching the middle of his second month when we confirmed it. And he’s now in the end of his third, or so I’ve been informed. . . .” a soft sigh. “Frankly, I was stunned to find out he was pregnant again . . . after what happened_ last time _. He was hurt so badly and Cho was certain he’d_ never _be able to conceive ever again, but I suppose . . . I suppose it’s an age of miracles, after all.”_

_And he eyed Weasel curiously, but not unkindly, as Weasel stammered and huffed, huffed and stammered, because . . ._ what?!

_“He’s . . . my . . ._ baby _?_ Carrying _?” Weasel finally breathed. Coulson nodded wryly, his serious eyebrows wiggling kind of, telegraphing what would’ve been a laugh in anyone else. Weasel gasped in a long breath. Then another immediately after. “Wait . . . whaddaya mean pregnant_ again _? He's been . . ._ pregnant before _?"_

_Coulson’s not-quite-smile became a definite frown, something cold and fierce flashing in his eyes. “Peter . . . lost his first child in the second trimester of the pregnancy, when Venom and Flash . . . attacked him for reasons Peter’s never told us. Peter was able to fight them off for long enough to make it to the Tower, but by then . . . by then, we had to make a choice to save just Peter, or possibly watch him and the child die during premature labor. So we—Helen and Bruce—saved Peter. Though it was a long time after that before he didn’t curse them every day for doing so. . . .”_

 

Weasel shook his head as this final puzzle piece slipped into place irrevocably at last. With total finality. He had at last integrated this relatively complete picture of the life and history of the man he loved, with what he’d already known about said man, and his heart swelled . . . even as it was ground into infinitesimally finer powder.

 

Because . . . how had Peter, even _his_ brave, beautiful, _strong_ _Pete_ , survived all of that with enough love and heart and soul to give to someone like Weasel? To anyone at all. . . ?

 

“God, baby,” Weasel murmured leaning over Peter, his sight blurring despite the contact lenses, until tears dripped down onto Peter’s bruised face. Weasel wiped his eyes impatiently and took Peter’s too-warm, dirty hand in his own. “I missed you so much. I _love_ you.”

 

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly and his eyelids fluttered again, this time opening just a little. Enough for Weasel to see their dark, feverish glitter.

 

“ _Jack_?” Peter whispered fearfully, blinking as if trying to banish a mirage. Weasel tried to smile.

 

“Yeah, baby. It’s me. You had me so worried!” Weasel said gently, leaning down to kiss Peter’s scraped forehead.

 

Peter’s eyes opened wider and his mouth trembled. A tear ran down the left side of his face, down one swollen, purpling cheek.

 

“Are you _real_?” he asked hesitantly, but hopefully. Weasel nodded, trying to keep his smile bright and calm.

 

“Damn right, baby. As real as it gets. I can fart _The Star-Spangled Banner_ to prove it to ya, if ya want.”

 

More tears leaked out of Peter’s eyes, but he laughed wearily. It sounded more like a sob, though, and his pale-pink tongue darted out to gingerly prod his split lower lip. “That’s . . . okay . . . three times on my birthday . . . was quite enough. I . . . I believe you. You’re real.”

 

Weasel chuckled, leaning down to kiss the bridge of Peter’s nose, then moved lower to kiss Peter’s still-slight, but—in retrospect—noticeably _rounded_ abdomen _extra_ -tenderly, as Dr. Cho did some sort of virtual work-up via a holographic-imager, scanning Peter’s body through Weasel’s.

 

When Weasel finally dared to glance at Cho almost a minute later, she smiled and nodded at a fuzzy-edged, but pretty distinct 3D image hanging in the air a few feet from her: it was of a womb with a fetus in it, and . . . what appeared to be said fetus’s _upside-down mirror image_ , both curled up in their resting place as if slumbering comfortably.

 

_The_ FUCK _?! Twins?!_ Weasel mouthed at Dr. Cho, goggling. Cho’s mouth twitched as Banner joined her at the virtual screen just beyond the 3D image, frowning in concentration.

 

_Yes. Peter and the babies will be_ fine, _Mr. Hammer_ , she mouthed, giving Weasel a double thumb’s-up. Tears immediately ran down Weasel’s face and he grinned at her before turning back to Peter, who was looking at the wall of the quinjet still weeping silently.

 

“I’m sorry, Jack. _So sorry_ ,” he said in a hoarse, hurting whisper. Weasel squeezed his hand, quite confused.

 

“For what, hon?”

 

“For . . . not telling you about my . . . condition. My _past_. That pregnancy had once upon a time been a possibility. But I never thought . . . I never thought I’d be pregnant _again_ , and it hurt so much to think about the last time that I just . . . I tried to bury it all. Put it behind me. Because I failed. I was given an innocent life to protect and keep, and I _failed_.” Peter closed his eyes. “And I _hate_ myself for it!” he said vehemently, to Weasel’s horror, then aimed his bright, febrile gaze at the wall again. Then back to Weasel as if he couldn't help himself. “I always _have_. But I couldn’t bear it if _you_ hated me, too. So I . . . kept it secret. Pretended none of it ever happened. And then when I found out the impossible had happened _again_ . . . I was too afraid you'd maybe hate me for _that_ to tell you.”

 

Shaking his head, Weasel pulled Peter’s hand to his face. The knuckles were scraped and bloody, like he’d been in a fist fight. Maybe he had. The thought made Weasel’s heart quiver and his insides churn. “Baby, I could _never_ hate you! I _love_ you! And I love _our children_. I don’t blame you for anything bad that’s happened . . . none of it’s your fault. The only bad-guy here is _Venom_. And Flash Thompson.”

 

“It _is_ my fault, Jack. _It is_ . . . I thought I could _save_ him. Save _Flash from Venom_. I kept going back and going back and going back to him. No matter how many times he hurt me, no matter how many times we fought and I lost, because even being beat to within what felt like an inch of my life felt better than losing the man—the _boy_ —I'd loved since I was nine. And even after I found out I was _pregnant_ , I still stayed. I stayed and let him _kill_ _my_ _baby_ before she even had a chance to live.” Peter swallowed and his throat clicked audibly, his eyes too bright and too broken to be borne. But bear them, Weasel did, until Peter looked away again. “I loved him _so much_ that I’d have gladly given up _everything_ I’d ever held dear, for _him_ . . . including my honor and principles and being an Avenger. Or I _thought_ I would’ve gladly given everything up for him until I actually did. Until I lost _her_ . . . lost my little May. After that . . . I didn’t think I could _ever_ love anyone again. I didn’t _want_ to love anyone ever again. And I _didn't_ for five years . . . and then I met _you_ , and. . . .”

 

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut, more tears falling as Weasel watched, and his heart was ground-down all over again.

 

“But _why_ , baby?” Weasel sighed, asking the one question he hadn’t yet had answered. “Why in God's name would he _hurt_ you like that? Didn’t he know you were. . . ?”

 

“What? Pregnant with his daughter?” Peter glanced at Weasel quickly, then away again. “ _Of course_ he knew, Jack. I’d told him the _same day_ I found out and . . . Hell, by the time I lost May, I was showing. Flash knew. _Venom_ knew.”

 

“Then _why_ —”

 

“Because that’s who and what he—what _they_ are _._ Especially when they’re _together_ , host and symbiote.” Peter’s dark, glittering gaze met Weasel’s again, this time holding it intently. “Because he _could_. _That’s_ why. That was _always_ the reason why. There was no rhyme or reason to the yelling, to the beatings, to the rapes . . . to _any_ of it. He just did it because he _could_. Because I was there and because I _let_ him.”

 

“Jesus,” Weasel said finally, heavily. “ _Jesus_ , baby.”

 

“So hate me, Jack. Really, you _should_. I’m,” Peter laughed, rueful and on the edge of sanity. “I’m a _terrible_ person. And I couldn’t even protect the _one person_ I loved and who loved me back unconditionally.”

 

“I’ll never _hate_ you, Pete Parker. _Never_.” Weasel shook his head grimly, stonily. "You're the _best_ person I've ever known and I love you more than anyone. _For always_."

 

“ _Please_ ,” Peter said pitifully, his voice shaking and breaking. “ _Hate me_. It’s the only way I can atone for what I let happen. For trying to forget and move on like _she_ never existed. For . . . for failing _two more_ innocent lives placed in my care.”

 

And Peter’s hand went to his abdomen again as a small sob escaped his split, chapped lips. For a moment, Weasel was perplexed. And then . . . he understood. Understood and wanted nothing more in that moment than Venom's pathetic, evil life in the palm of his hand.

 

If he had _that_ . . . oh . . . Weasel'd make the dying last. And last. And _last_.

 

“Pete, baby . . . _our babies_ . . . are okay!” Weasel leaned down to kiss Peter’s forehead, lips lingering on slightly too warm skin. “They’re . . . they're gonna be _fine_. Dr. Cho said.”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

Weasel leaned back just enough to look into Peter’s startled, confused eyes. They were in bruised purple-grey hollows and he looked so much younger than his twenty-five years. But, Hell, Weasel was _thirty-seven_ , and he had a feeling that he’d _never_ been as old as _Pete Parker was_ on his best and brightest days. “Doc Cho’s doing some kinda work-up to make sure they’re still kickin’ ass and takin’ names, as we speak, see?” Weasel helped Peter sit up a bit, till he could clearly see the virtual monitor showing their children, safe as houses and—hopefully—healthy as horses. Peter’s eyes widened and more tears fell.

 

“But . . . but Venom _said_ —”

 

Weasel’s eyes narrowed angrily as he gazed at the monitor. “I’m sure Venom said a _lot_ of things, and that they were all lies, Pete.”

 

Peter dragged in a deep, slow breath. “He said he gave me something . . . something to make me . . . miscarry. That it was poison that’d killed the _babies_ but _not_ me. That he had _plans_ for me. That he. . . .” shuddering, Peter clutched at Weasel’s hand, his eyes huge and stricken in his too-young face. “He s-said our children were _dead in my body_ and that he’d _rip the corpses out of me._ ”

 

“Jesus, _fuck_ , Pete, honey. . . .” Weasel was, for once, rendered utterly speechless in horror at the trauma Peter had suffered even in just the past four days at Venom’s twisted, heartless hands, never mind what'd happened five years ago. He couldn’t even _feel_ anything besides his own horror and despair . . . and a deep, simmering rage that left him breathless and sweating and feeling impotent. “I—I— _baby_. . . .”

 

“We’re not showing any sort of foreign chemicals in your body, Peter, and the twins are still alive and doing well,” Banner said, his soft voice carrying clearly. He kept his eyes on the screen, however. “They aren’t in any distress at all, still developing normally for their first trimester. _You’re_ a bit malnourished and underweight, and your blood pressure is . . . worryingly elevated. But with rest and medication, and a few decent meals, we’ll have you right back on track.”

 

“Dr. Banner’s right, Peter,” Dr. Cho said kindly. “Even under such extreme circumstances, your body has behaved _admirably_ in regard to protecting and nourishing the twins. They’re lucky to have such a strong and dedicated, loving father. _Fathers_ ,” she corrected herself, including Weasel in her gentle gaze.

 

"See, baby? Everything's gonna be _great_ . . . you kept our babies safe and healthy, like a fuckin' _BOSS_." Grinning, Weasel looked back at Peter, who was staring at Dr. Cho as if she’d spoken in her native Korean. Then he looked at Banner, who was still staring at the monitor. Then he looked at Weasel.

 

“I . . . I kept them _safe_?” Peter asked in a voice so tiny and fearful and broken, Weasel felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He’d never loved _anyone_ as much as he loved Pete Parker in that moment. “Our babies are . . . are _healthy_?”

 

“You heard the good doctors, hot stuff. You came through this shit-show like a fucking _champ_! And so did the ankle-biters—they're already strong and tenacious, like you.”

 

“Oh!” Peter’s free hand went up to cover his mouth and his eyes fluttered shut. “ _Oh_ , I . . . that’s. . . .”

 

Peter shivered then crumpled in the arms Weasel was quick to wind around him, pulling him close. Weasel rocked his weeping boyfriend, kissing his dusty, dark hair, murmuring comforting nonsense about what they were going to name the kids— _Jack, the third,_  and _Jacklynn_ was _his_ vote—and whether they were going to raise them Catholic (the Parkers) or Lutheran (the Hammers) or _sane_ (neither family, probably).

 

“I saved them? I kept them healthy? They're really alright?” Peter kept murmuring, _asking_ , as if afraid of the answer, hiding his face in Weasel’s throat. Weasel held Peter—held his _family_ —as tight as he dared, his eyes closing on his own tears.

 

“Yeah, ya did, baby. I’m gettin’ you a mug that says: _**#1 Dad**_. You’ve fuckin’ _earned_ that shit.”

 

Peter giggled between sobs and held on desperately to Weasel, still shaking.

 

“It’s gonna be copacetic, Pete, you'll see. _Everything’s_ gonna be wavy-gravy, from now on. You’re gonna move in with me, at last, and I’m gonna take _such_ good care of all three of you,” Weasel promised in a low murmur. “And once you’re doin’ better, you and I are goin’ to this merc-friend of mine back in Buffalo, who makes bitchin’, _badass_ jewelry on the side—everyone calls him _Fat Gandalf_ , because . . . well, it’s a long, story—and we’re gonna get matching rings, you an’ me.”

 

“Rings?” Peter sniffled against Weasel’s stubbly throat.

 

“ _Fuck, yeah_ , baby. After we get the designs squared away and Gandalf casts the rings, I’m gonna take you out to _Kittichai_ like I was gonna do on our _first_ _date_ , and I’m gonna pop the question in front of the whole restaurant, like a real swell. Like a fuckin’ _rom-com_ ,” Weasel said proudly. Peter looked up at him with wide, red, but almost amused eyes.

 

“Isn’t telling me your plans taking all the romance and surprise out of the proposal, asshole?” he asked, still sniffling. Weasel shrugged dismissively.

 

“Please. It’ll _still_ be romantic as _balls_. Besides . . . I don’t wanna spring startling shit on you when you’re . . . in such a fragile condition. The least I could do would be to _warn_ a bitch.”

 

Peter looked confused again for a moment, then his expression cleared, and he rolled his eyes and chuckled.

 

“ _This_ bitch could  _still_ kick _your_ ass, six days to Sunday, jerk,” he mumbled, squeezing Weasel’s hand with a tiny, but solid bit of spidey-strength. Weasel grimaced then grinned.

 

“Ouch! Papa-Bear is fierce _and_ feisty! I _like_ it!” he crowed, smirking, and Peter huffed, but tucked his face into Weasel’s neck again with a relieved sigh.

 

“Douche,” he murmured fondly, sniffling some more, his entire body going loose and relaxed. "I _love_ you. Hell, I _might_ even say yes when you propose."

 

"You'd _better_ say yes. Fat Gandalf's jewelry ain't cheap on short notice and neither is _Kittichai_ . . . and I love _you,_ too."

 

Soon, Peter's breathing had evened out and Weasel adjusted the back of the stretcher so he could sit and lean back with Peter in his arms. Peter didn’t even stir. Not when Weasel began stroking his hair with a tremoring, obsessive hand. Not when Iron-Man mumbled something then flew out to assist in clean-up/cover-up. . . .

 

And not even when a struggling, raging, bleeding, half-dead Venom was dragged in by Iron-Man half an hour later, in a massive, cylindrical, titanium-bounded delta-field—just a little something Weasel had cooked up and adapted with Banner's and Cho's input—its toothy maw gaping and vicious as it growled and hissed and snapped.

 

“Pipe the fuck down!” Iron-Man commanded in a clipped, cold tone as he set down the titanium-ended cylinder down in a corner near the gangplank, and some sort of magnetic clamps locked it into place. Venom continued to throw itself weakly, but insistently against the delta-field. “We won, you lost, end of story, Lockjaw. The fat lady has sung. So shut your yap.”

 

Venom hissed, its white lenses narrowing as Iron-Man strode away to Banner and Cho. Then it glanced around, those lenses settling quickly on Peter and Weasel. The lenses widened for a few moments and its hissing stopped.

 

Then its iridescent, black face seemed to flicker for a moment, and Weasel could’ve sworn he saw, for just a second or two, an ashen, cruelly handsome face surrounded by messy white-blond hair, and in the center of which sat miserable, raging, storm-grey eyes like dirty chips of ice. Cheekbones one could grate cheese on and a jaw like an old-timey movie star completed this brief glimpse of Eugene "Flash" Thompson. . . .

 

Then the moment passed and Venom hissed once, looking away with a fangy-sneer just as Weasel did the same, holding Peter tighter. Thereafter, the creature didn’t make another sound and crouched warily on its heels, watching everything and everyone but the one person it'd fought to keep under its merciless thumb, and had maybe even _loved_ in its own sick way . . . once upon a time.

 

“ _We won_ , asshole,” Weasel murmured darkly, his mate’s and his children’s lives safe and sound in his protective, possessive arms. “We won, you _lost_ , and _I'm_ gonna dance on your fuckin' _carcass_ real soon.”

 

By the time the sun was officially up, Peter was in the hospital wing of the Avengers’ Tower, with an IV in his arm, sleeping soundly, clean and bandaged up where needed. Weasel sat at his bedside in a surprisingly _comfortable_ chair—at least Stark was good for providing  _something_ , other than snark and specialized weapons—his awed and contented gaze alternating between Peter’s peaceful, exhausted face, and the monitor on the wall, projecting a crystal-clear image of their safely slumbering children.

 

Weasel barely blinked until, fifteen hours later, Peter opened his tired eyes and smiled sleepily, his free hand automatically going to his stomach as he linked the fingers of his other hand with Weasel’s.

 

“Hi, jerk,” he said, yawning _big_ , and Weasel let out a laugh that might’ve been _at least_ half-sob as his world shifted on its axis, before at last settling _exactly_ where it'd always belonged. He leaned forward to kiss Peter's forehead tenderly, just next to a jaunty, Iron-Man Bandaid.

 

“Hi, _yourself_ , dick.” Weasel sat back and also kissed Peter’s hand, wet, blurry, burning-aching eyes slipping shut for a moment . . . but _only_ for a moment. He didn’t want to miss a _thing_. “ _Welcome back_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Got a hankering for more? Tell me so!
> 
> And [follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/), while you're at it!


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